


The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

by SGreenD



Series: The Penny in the Parking Lot [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Season 3 AU, explicit depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SGreenD/pseuds/SGreenD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively titled: The Understudy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead of killing Devil, Boyd sent him away to Frankfort, to work undercover for Quarles. This is Devil's story of his time in Frankfort, meeting people, taking lives, and in the process almost losing his own.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>An AU of how season 3 might have played out if Devil had survived - quite similar to the actual thing, only Devil doesn't get to see much of what happens in Harlan. </p>
<p>(A Coming-of-Age story for a bad guy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Prologue described this AU in snippets - now you get the whole thing. Or, well, Part 1 of the whole thing.
> 
> I wrote this story over the course of the first half of 2013. Looking back on it now, after two semesters of studying English and Linguistics, I sometimes shudder at the horrible English I used. But since I am a) too lazy to go back and edit and b) I will always find something I don't like about what I wrote, even if it's in the smallest details, I will just post this story as I posted it on ff.net and leave it at that.  
> In the end, if anything, it's nice to look back and see the development.  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1 

The Understudy

 

Chapter 1

 

“Listen to me right here, Devil. It won’t be forever, just a couple of months, and be my inside man. Do what you do best, son. Find people who’ll help us. You know what I mean. Recruit.”

“Well… you know me. People person.”

 

 

Devil arrived in Frankfort, Kentucky, at four in the morning, with a hurriedly packed bag of clothes and a provisorily patched up gunshot wound in his side. He’d bought six cups of coffee-to-go at a gas station just outside of Harlan County to try and stay awake through the three-hour drive, and he’d chugged down all six of them, too, even after they’d gone cold and stale. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Although the flaming pain from the gunshot did good in keeping him alert, as well.

The night was humid, the air felt heavy to breathe through when Devil passed through Lexington. The entire situation felt completely unreal to him, like it was someone else’s life he was living right now. It was, too, kind of. Devil was not the guy one would accuse of being a traitor, never had been. He looked for someone to trust, and when he found them, he was loyal. Until he had a good reason not to be anymore. And with Boyd, he really never had had a good reason. And still, tonight, because of some big city asshole who told him the things he’d wanted to hear, he’d almost become just that.

He remembered the look in Boyd’s eyes. In his rampage, pumped on adrenaline because, holy shit, he was actually doing this, Devil had mistaken the look in Boyd’s eyes for fear when Devil turned the gun on him. Really, Boyd was just hurt. He’d never been afraid. Course not, if Johnny had told him everything. Then he shot at Devil, and Devil remembered the fear that he himself had felt – he’d thought that this would be it, that he would die on the floor of this bar that they’d just gotten back from the fat bastard that had stolen it from Johnny. 

And it should have been the end. Devil knew that. You couldn’t abide traitors in this business. But for some reason Boyd had not pulled the trigger a second time. He’d given Devil the chance to explain. In short, Boyd had given Devil his life, and Devil knew he could be thankful because, living their lives the way they did down in Harlan, re-building the criminal empire that had been nearly lost after Bo died, life was the biggest gift you could give someone, aside from money and purpose. Boyd hadn’t given him any money, but he’d given him a purpose alright.

It was the one condition Boyd had had about letting Devil live: That Devil had to go to Frankfort, right now, and start working for Quarles, infiltrate the goddamned Dixie Mafia and find people who’d be willing to help, make the right friends in all the right places. And Devil was good at that. He knew how to make friends. He could do it. 

The gunshot wound, meanwhile, was in equal measures punishment as well as a very convincing cover-up. If Devil showed up in Frankfort and told Quarles that he really, actually tried to do as Quarles had wanted him to and take Boyd out, it wouldn’t have sufficed to deliver the message with a sorry face and not a scratch on him. 

Devil had called Tanner as soon as he’d left the Harlan County line behind him, while he was getting himself the coffee, and told him the story Boyd had constructed for him. To deliver it on the phone was easy enough. Tanner swallowed everything Devil said like it was his job and told him he was really, really sorry it went down that way and that he shouldn’t worry and let Tanner take care of that. Devil stood in the humid air, felt the burning in his side, and watched as some drunk hobo pissed against the only lit up street lamp in a radius of maybe half a mile, and he thought that he was more than willing to.

Tanner gave him directions to a place in Frankfort where he would be able to stay the night and told him that Tanner himself would call Quarles first thing in the morning. Devil jotted the directions onto the back of the gas station’s receipt and wished he’d packed some Advil. After hanging up, he felt a little lighter that the first time he’d practiced his story everything had worked out alright. Devil got back into his truck and hit the road.

Tanner had directed him to a rundown apartment complex on West Broadway Street, and Devil thanked his good sense of navigation. In his tired state he’d almost taken the wrong turn from East Main Street, but the streets were empty so no one was there to complain when he did a u-turn on Capital Avenue and turned right instead.

He had to squint in the dark to make out the apartment number, and had to ring the bell about ten times before the door opened.

“Ey, yo, dude” the guy who opened Devil the door said in way of greeting, “chillax, would ya? It’s like, 3 am.”

The last time Devil had smelled so much weed had been when he himself had dealt it a couple years back. He cleared his throat.

“It’s 4 am, and Tanner sends me” he said.

“Oh. ‘kay then, come on in” Mr. High-as-a-kite stepped aside and let Devil in and a cloud of smoke out. Devil looked around: The apartment was dark, but from what he could see it was large and unkempt. Here were two rooms without doors where he could look in and see people sleep on the floor or on mattresses and sleeping bags. There was what could pass as a living room, with a flat screen TV and a huge corner sofa that seemed to take up half of the room and had pillows and a blanket arranged on it like it was someone’s bed. 

“My name’s Keegan an’ I’ll show you where you can set up shop” Mr.High-as-a-kite said and led him through a hallway to one of the few rooms that actually had a door.

“Tanner gave me a call couple hours ago, said some guy was gonna show up and that he deserves the good guest room, with door an’ bed an’ separate bathroom an’ everythin’” Keegan explained, “an’ I’m guessin’ that’s you. Your name’s… what’s your name again?”

“Devil” Devil said and was really glad he got to sleep in an actual bed, because his side was aching fiercely still and he was not sure whether he would have survived a night in a sleeping bag.

“Devil? That’s so cool, dude. You wanna bum a joint, just tell me and I’ll get you some, no problem. Tanner said you deserve somethin’ good cause you done somethin’ really important.”

“Yeah, well.” Devil squirmed under Keegan’s intense gaze. The curiosity was emanating off him as strongly as the weed smell.

“So. You want some? You didn’t say.”

“Uh, nah, thanks, man. I could use some pain killers, though. I got some… well, my side hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“What happened?”

“I think that ain’t none of your business, man. You got some pain killers or what?” Devil was not the most patient person on his best days. Now this Keegan guy was seriously pushing it.

“Yeah, sure. Jeez, dude. Chillax.” Keegan looked slightly put off now and turned away, presumably to look for the pain pills, and Devil was just fine with it; he needed rest. Pain killers and rest, and the bathroom. Maybe if he was rude enough Keegan would leave him the hell alone.

Keegan returned with a package of Ibuprofen and tried to decipher the little writings on the side of the box. “It says here you should take only two at a time, so…”

“Yeah, thanks, awesome” Devil said and ripped the box from Keegan’s hand. “So, this is my room? Alright then, I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

“Well, technically it’s already mornin’, dude…”

I don’t wanna hear it, Devil thought. Just thinking about the time made him almost pass out on the spot from exhaustion and fear. It made the entire situation feel too real for comfort to think about the time, because it made Devil think about why he had been on the road for the last few hours and where he was now and why, and it turned his stomach. He couldn’t stop the thoughts, though, and made it just in time to the adjoining bathroom to empty his stomach contents (which consisted of nothing but bile and coffee) into the dingy toilet.

“Are you okay, dude?” Keegan asked.

“Fuck off!” Devil couldn’t even muster up the strength to yell at the guy; it was more of an angry rasping. It didn’t have the hoped for effect.

“Oh man, you really gotta feel like shit, huh?” Keegan said from the door where he was leaning against the frame.

Devil sighed, leaning his forehead on his arms while crouching on the floor in front of the toilet. “No, man, it’s a fuckin’ party. The hell does it look like?”

“Not like much fun” Keegan stated.

“Got that right.” Devil carefully sat back when he was sure he wouldn’t throw up again. Must have been a spur of the moment, he thought. This night had taken a lot out of him. He felt fatigue settle over him like a rather heavy blanket, and he sagged against the shower cabinet to the left of the toilet. The cool tiles on the floor felt like heaven against his overheated body.

“Shit, dude, you’re bleedin’!”

Devil heard Keegan through his blanket of fatigue and looked down at his side, and yeah, his vest had slipped to the side and he could see that he’d bled through his bandage and shirt, but he just couldn’t be bothered with it. Not now. Not EVER.

“Oh yeah” Devil said dumbly. Like he could have forgotten about how the man he’d trusted and followed for the last ten years (not counting the months after Boyd’s religious conversion and working in the mine when his church thing didn’t work out) shot him not whole five hours ago. “That. It’s, uh, not that big a… a deal.”

“That the important thing you did for Tanner? That you got shot?”

“Sure” Devil said. As nice as the cool tiles felt, he needed to get up and over to the bed somehow, and chug down some of the pain killers. Oh, and he had to take a shit. He considered all of these necessities and found himself barely able to put them in the correct order.

“That’s some messed up shit, dude” Keegan said with big eyes, admiring Devil’s war wounds.

“It is. Now, get out, I gotta…” Devil vaguely waved at the toilet.

“Sure, dude. No biggie. Ey, let me know, you need anythin’. More pain killers, some weed, anythin’ else, just tell me, alright? Tanner’s my bud, if he says you did somethin’ important, I’ll say you’re my bud, now, too.”

“Awesome. Now go.”

Keegan finally left the bathroom, but left the door wide open, and Devil had to fight himself back onto his feet to close it. When he exited the bath ten minutes later, though, there was a tall glass of water standing on the nightstand next to the bed that hadn’t been there before. Maybe that Keegan fella was okay. A little annoying, a little high, but okay. 

The room was relatively small, and the bathroom practically only a toilet, shower and sink with a door, but after Devil had closed the door to the hallway, silence fell over the room, and Devil felt himself able to relax, just a little. There was a twin size bed, a huge window through which Devil could see that the sun was already rising, and next to the window was an ugly-as-fuck wicker chair, and that was it. Devil had dropped his bag next to the bed during his sprint for the toilet, and he just left it there. Not having the energy to even take off his shoes, he just dropped onto the bed and closed his eyes.

No matter how exhausted and tired Devil was, though, he would not fall asleep. One minute his side was bothering him, then the next he was almost sleeping when the birds started tweeting and the incessant noise they made just would not let Devil rest. After some time, the sky was getting lighter and lighter already, he sat up, took five Advil and chugged them down with half of the water Keegan had left for him. He was afraid he’d throw up again if he put too much on his stomach. After that he slipped into a doze, zoning in and out of awareness, never entirely asleep, but not quite awake, either.

Then finally, he fell asleep. Devil was dreaming, and he dreamt that he was watching TV, and there was a music video on, it was Viggo Mortensen from Lord of the Rings, playing piano, singing about love (and Devil dimly wondered how he’d never known that Viggo Mortensen was a musician), and the video was pretty strange: It was about a real person, though who it was, Devil couldn’t say, living in a world of puppets. 

Nothing about that world was real, even the trees and the grass in the front yards were made out of plastic. Also, all the puppets were walking on stilts and therefore twice as big as the real person. And the real person wanted to escape, packed their bag, and tried to leave, but before they could, they fell through a trap door, and one of the puppets freed them from it and asked them who they were, and the person said that they came from Up-Less-World, where everything that usually should have been up was down, and that if you usually walked over something, in Up-Less-World you walked under it.

Devil jerked awake. He blinked against the sunshine that was penetrating his eyes, and thought that was what had woken him from one of the strangest fucking dreams he had ever had, but he realized it was his cell phone, vibrating against his thigh in the pocket of his pants.

He fished it out just in time.

“Hello?”

“Devil, man!” It was Tanner.

“Are you okay? Did you find the place?”

“Yeah, I did. The guy, uhm, Keegan, gave me the room with the bed. He smokes a lotta weed, huh.”

“Yeah, he does, but other than that, he’s cool. Houses the biggest CAG flat in Frankfort for us, so that’s pretty cool, too.”

“CAG flat?”

“Yeah, it’s short for ‘Coming And Going’, cause no one ever stays there long. See, Dixie Mafia’s got a lot of people workin’ for ‘em, but a lot of ‘em are just passin’ through, so they’ll need a place to stay that ain’t a hotel or motel where they gotta pay extra just to sleep, so we organized a bunch of apartments all throughout the city where they can stay. I sent you to the biggest one cause I knew that Keegan’s the nicest guy you can find, and I called him after you called me and told him to get the big guest room ready for you.”

“Oh, okay, thanks for that then.” Devil carefully put his feet on the floor and sat on the side of the bed. The sun was up and his cell phone told him it was shortly after 8:30 am.

“So, you okay? Get some sleep?”

“A little, I’ll be fine. You talk to Quarles?”

“Oh, yeah, I did! He, well, he sounded pissed on the phone, but he wants to talk to you. I’ll give you the address for his office here and you can go pay him a visit in the next, say, three hours or somethin’. Alright?”

“Alright.” Devil sighed. The fear crept back in. “You think he’s gon’ shoot me?”

“Uhm.” Tanner faltered a little. “Well… you disappointed him, man. He ain’t gonna bake you a birthday cake if you know what I’m sayin’. But… I mean, you already took a bullet for him. That’s… just tell him what you told me, like you told me, an’ I think you’s gon’ be fine.”

“Sure?”

“Well, no, I ain’t. The fucker’s unpredictable. Just, grovel, man, make him feel sorry for you, I’d say. If there’s one thing I know bout that son of a bitch, it’s that he likes it when people make him feel like he’s doin’ ‘em a big favor.”

“Okay…”

“You fucked up, man, you know it. Just tell him the truth, and hope for the best.”

“Alright” Devil said, wishing he could just sleep through the next few months until Boyd let him come back to Harlan. He certainly felt tired enough.

Tanner gave him the directions to Quarles’s office and wished him luck before they hung up, and Devil leaned back until he was lying on the bed again, feet still on the floor, his gaze locked on the water-stained ceiling. There was mildew in the corner. Devil couldn’t bring himself to care. He was dozing again, when there was a knock on the door. Devil turned his head to the side without opening his eyes.

“Hey, dude? Uh, Devil? You awake?”

“I am now, I guess. What is it?”

“Nothin’, just, I heard you talkin’ on the phone and thought you might want some coffee?”

Devil sighed. Tanner was right, this Keegan was a nice guy. Might as well take advantage of that while he still could.

“Some milk, no sugar, thank you.”

“Comin’ right up, dude!”

Devil heard muffled voices in the hallway, but he was dozing again, thinking about the strange dream he’d had. Whatever it might have meant, he felt like the normal person in the world of puppets anyway; it still seemed like this was someone else’s life and he was just the understudy and didn’t know his cue, nor his lines.

 

 

Devil left the apartment in the morning at about 10 am. It was unseasonably cold in Frankfort, a stark contrast to the humidity of the night, people were walking around with jackets and scarves, but Devil was sweating rivers. His side was aching something fierce, and he was a bit dizzy. The sky was covered by a thin layer of foggy clouds that the sun only barely managed to shine through which made everything look a bit hazy and tinted the entire atmosphere in an almost ethereal light; but maybe, Devil thought to himself, he was just seeing things, high from lack of sleep and breathing in the remnants of weed smoke that Keegan had filled the entire apartment with all throughout the night.

When he arrived at the building where Quarles’s Frankfort “office” was located, his heart started beating faster, and the ache in his side pounded in rhythm with his pulse. Sweat was running down his back, and his hands were shaking. In a nutshell, Devil felt like shit. The elevator ride didn’t do him any good either; at least outside he’d had fresh, cool air to breathe in, and the climate in the confined elevator space felt stuffy, used up, lived in. It was disgusting. 

Devil barely remembered how he ended up in front of the office door, but he knocked anyway, and then waited until he could hear someone call him in.

“Devil!” Quarles gave him a big fake smile, and Devil almost vomited on the grey carpeted floor; this fake smile was so unlike Boyd’s, it was almost bizarre, like a distorted mirror image of the way it was supposed to be. All blonde curls and pasty white skin instead of the hazel eyes and crazy black hair that Devil knew so well. For a moment he wondered whether he was still dreaming and had zapped himself into a special edition episode of the Twilight Zone, then Quarles started talking again.

“Well, don’t stand there all day, come on in, have a seat.”

Quarles pointed to the chair in front of his desk, and Devil gratefully took him up on the offer. It was more of a slumping down than sitting down, but Devil would take what he could get right now. He grimaced when the movement pulled at his side.

“Well, well” Quarles began, looking him over. “So, Tanner told me what happened last night. Such an unfortunate thing. Mh.”

Devil looked at him and willed his leg to stop twitching. The situation reminded him of high school, when he sat in the principal’s office waiting to find out if anybody knew it had been him who’d set off the fire alarm, or who’d watched as his friends flooded the rest rooms by stuffing bunches after bunches of toilet paper down the loos and then flushing again and again.

“It… it was, yeah” he finally said and had to clear his throat. His voice sounded strange in his own ears.

“You don’t look too good either, if you don’t mind me saying that.”

“Don’t feel too hot…” Devil blinked. Well, he was hot as hell right now. “…uhm, good.”

“Can I see…” Quarles waved a hand in the vague direction of Devil’s left side.

“Uhm, sure.” Devil fought himself back into a standing position and pulled up his vest and t-shirt, revealing the self-made bandage that was soaked through with blood that was already drying. It really wasn’t nice to look at.

“Dear Lord” Quarles said, frowning. “You should let someone take care of that.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” Devil carefully sat down again, belying his words when he barely managed to suppress a moan of pain. “It’s gon’ be… just fine. Just need to, uh, have a lie-down and, I dunno, some painkillers maybe?”

“Yeah. We’ll see.” Quarles continued to study him. “I’ll have one of my secretaries give you some antibiotics when you leave. You look like you got a fever.”

“Oh.” That thought hadn’t even occurred to Devil yet. It would certainly explain why he’d thought for a moment to be in an episode of the Twilight Zone, and why he was so goddamned hot. “Yeah. Could be. Guess antibiotics would be a good idea, then.”

“Of course. Now, I’d like to ask you what exactly happened. I mean, Tanner told me, but I’d like to hear you tell me again, just in case Tanner missed something. Go on.”

This was it, Devil knew it, this was the test he’d been waiting for. If he managed to make it sound believable now, it would work, he’d be in. He recalled exactly the words that Boyd had told him to say. But Boyd was just such a good liar that Devil didn’t know if he could make it. But he had caught himself a goddamned bullet and got away with his life; he had to try at least.

“Sure, okay. Well, I, I’d talked to Johnny, Boyd’s cousin, told him we should kill Boyd because he’s lost track of what’s supposed to happen, and then we confronted Boyd, but… turned out Johnny’s more loyal to Boyd than I’d thought, and they both turned guns on me, and then Boyd shot at me and I, I know I should’ve probably fired back, but, I got hit in the side and then I just… ran.”

“Ran like the Devil” Quarles said and chuckled at his own stupid joke. Devil wanted to punch that pasty sag of shit in the face, but instead he tried to crook a smile. 

“Yeah, like that. Just wanted to get the hell outta Harlan before word spread and I was, you know, the most wanted down there, so I packed my things and hit the road, and called Tanner when I was just outta Harlan County.”

“I apologize for imploring” Quarles said, leaning forward on his desk, like a concerned school teacher. “But I would like to know why Mr. Crowder didn’t aim at your chest. Or did he?”

“He might have” Devil shrugged. “I was backing off, though, already tryin’ to get to the door, maybe his aim was off. He ain’t the best shot, you know.”

Quarles nodded, like he did in fact know about that, although Devil wouldn’t have known how he did; it wasn’t even true. Boyd was a good shot. Maybe not the best, not as good as Devil or his Marshal friend, but pretty good, still.

“Alright, Devil. That about accords with what Tanner told me on the phone. I’m quite sorry it went down that way, but, well, what can you do.”

He still nodded to himself while saying those words, and something in his expression had changed. It clicked in Devil’s mind: Jesus Christ, he’d passed. The stupid fucker had bought it. 

“Now, Devil, give me one reason why I should not just go ahead and kill you.”

“Well, uh… I mean, I… I know I messed up, but I just…”

“Yes?”

“Listen, I know I screwed this up.” Devil shifted in his seat, both to find a more comfortable position for his side and to stop his leg from starting with the twitchy thing again. Grovel, Tanner had said. Make him feel like he’s doing you a favor.

“I’m sorry, Sir. But I’m tellin’ you, that was a one-time thing. I ain’t gonna underestimate anyone ever again, I swear. Just…” Grovel, Devil thought, grovel! “I… I can’t go back to Harlan now. Everybody’s gon’ be on the lookout for me now. Half of the town’s under Boyd’s control anyway, an’ the other half, I don’t think I can count on their goodwill, either. No-one likes a traitor, right? So, just…please, I ain’t got nowhere else to go… to.”

“And you want to stay here in Frankfort now, I presume?”

“Yeah.”

“And you would like for me to give you some work.”

“Yeah?”

“Devil.” Quarles studied him. “Devil, Devil, Devil.”

“Uhuh?”

“Devil. How’d you ever get a name like that? I reckon you didn’t earn that name for nothing?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, I’d like to hear that story some time.”

Over my dead body, Devil thought and looked at Quarles’s disgusting, pasty, fake smile.

“Sure, some time” he said.

“Well then! I’d say you should go back to the CAG flat Tanner placed you in. I hope you got a nice guest room. Get some rest, heal a little, pick up some antibiotics from my secretary. Stay in the flat for the time being, and give me a call in, let’s say three days, that should give you enough time to recover a bit. And then we’ll take a look at where exactly your talents lie, and find you some work to do. That’s all, you can go now.”

Devil was in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first thing I ever wrote in which I used the word "nigger".  
> As for posting speed, I'm doing it as I feel like it.
> 
> Enjoy.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

 

The Understudy

 

Chapter 2

 

Devil was on his last legs when he reached the CAG flat again. There was an entire parking space cleared out just for the inhabitants of the apartment complex and hence Devil was able to park his truck right in front of the door, so that was pretty cool, but he had trouble appreciating it right now. What was it from that zombie film, the quote that kinda fit this moment? Enjoy the little things or something. Well, Devil was certainly trying his best.

Dragging himself up the stairs (why did the flat have to be on the top floor again?), he pulled the little bottle of antibiotics from the pocket of his pants and looked at it closely. Tanner had said the motherfucker Quarles was unpredictable. Maybe he’d seen through Devil’s act after all and had advised for his secretary to give him pills with Lord knew what in them to kill him. Everything was possible right now, Devil felt like it had been way too easy, and how could he know whether Quarles was actually falling for the whole thing? There was just no way to tell. This was the time for some of the good faith that Boyd always asked him for. 

“Now’s good a time as any” Devil murmured to himself, not even consciously aware he’d just said that out loud, and dry-swallowed three pills from the bottle. When he arrived at the top floor the world was swimming a little. This time Keegan answered the door so quickly he could have been standing directly behind it just waiting for someone to ring the bell.

“Devil! There you are again!” His smiling face turned serious. “You don’t look like you feel good.”

“I don’t” Devil answered shortly and walked past him on wobbly legs. “Might have a fever, or somethin’, I dunno. Jus’ wanna go to bed ‘n sleep, for, like, a week or somethin’.”

“Okay then, buddy, uhm… You need anythin’, dude, just holler, alright? I’ll be right there.”

Funny you don’t have anywhere else to be, Devil thought. A lot of strange stuff was going through his head, snippets of thoughts he would have liked to think from beginning to end but just didn’t have the means to at this moment, like, who paid the rent for this giant flat? Who kept it clean? Did Keegan only get money to house this flat, and lived on that? Why did the Dixie Mafia give such an important job to someone who was clearly smoking weed like it was oxygen…?

Devil stuffed two more pills from the bottle down his parched throat and washed them down with the rest of the water that was still on his nightstand. How many of these had he already taken? He’d lost count, but if the pills were poison, Devil considered, it didn’t matter either way. Carefully he sat down on the bed and removed his shoes, then his pants, then his shirt and vest, before he slowly peeled the bandage off the wound. It stuck to his skin where the blood had dried, and he bit the insides of his lips bloody to keep from making a sound. 

Whether the wound looked infected he couldn’t say. He figured he just had to put on a clean dressing, and if the pills were actually antibiotics, it was gonna be fine. It just had to. Devil was alone in a city hours away from home with no-one to help him but some pothead with Jesus-hair, in a flat with mildew in the corner and at least five other people who could be fucking contract killers for all he knew. 

Devil rummaged through the bathroom to find something he could use as a bandage, something clean, and actually came across a first-aid-kit that he immediately raided for all it was worth: Bandages, medical tape, disinfectant. He looked at the disinfectant and knew it was gonna hurt, but also that it had to be done. Well, hell. He’d already gotten shot, it couldn’t be worse than that, right?

It turned out to be not worse, but about equally as bad. This time he couldn’t suppress a shout and immediately had Keegan at the door asking if he was okay, and Devil thought that was a dumb question if ever there was one, but he just said it was fine. Spraying disinfectant on an open wound was dumb, too, so maybe Devil shouldn’t be casting stones just yet. When the burning subsided enough for him to breathe through the pain again, he sprayed some on the dressing as well before putting it over the wound and fixing it with medical tape. It looked pretty good from his perspective, too, like he’d actually gotten treatment somewhere.

Stumbling back to the bed, he laid down on top of the covers, since he was still so goddamn hot, and stared at the mildew in the corner next to the window without properly seeing it. If he survived this, if this was his life now, Devil thought, he had to learn how to deal with it… he had to learn his lines. Something about puppets popped up in his mind, from the strange dream he’d had this morning. Something about puppets and understudies and he was tired and the trees were all plastic, but how could that be?

Devil fell asleep before he could finish that snippet of a thought, and he would only wake up again when it was already dark outside and Keegan stood in his doorway with a plate of dinner asking him if he was doing any better now.

 

 

“So he swallowed the whole story?”

“Yeah, Boyd, everythin’, he bought it.”

“That’s great news, Devil. Well done.”

“So what now?”

“You do as he says. Rest, and contact him. Let him give you work, and try and meet people, make contacts, friends, you know how that works.”

“Yeah, I do. Just…”

“Yeah, son?”

“I just hate it, takin’ orders from that dickhead. He treats me like I’m stupid.”

“You ain’t stupid, I know it, you know it, that’s gon’ have to be enough for you. See it for what it is, Devil: You takin’ orders from ME, and I say, do what he says. Call me once a week and talk to me.”

“…alright, Boyd.”

“Devil, what’s that sound in the background?”

“Oh, that’s the shower, I’m in the bathroom. I don’t want anyone listenin’ in, can’t take the risk, right?”

“That’s right. You think anyone would listen in, though?”

“Boyd, I ain’t got no idea. I only met one of the, like, eight or somethin’ people that are stayin’ here right now. Most of ‘em’ll probably be gone by the week, but they’ll just be replaced by other guys that I know jack shit bout. I just can’t take the risk.”

“That is very true, my friend. And how are you doin’, anyway? You didn’t say when I asked you earlier.”

“I’m… I’mma be fine, Boyd. I slept through the whole day, that’s why I’m only callin’ you now. I, uh, took some meds that kinda knocked me out.”

“I’m sorry I had to shoot you, Devil, but you know. You brought this on you yourself.”

“I know, Boyd, I… I know. It was a good thing, too, I guess. Quarles felt real sorry for me, I musta been lookin’ pretty pathetic this mornin’, barely got any sleep, and I had… I just felt like shit.”

“And how you feelin’ now?”

“Better, I guess. Gonna take a shower, Keegan’s made me dinner, and then I think I’mma be ready to fall right back asleep.”

“Alright then, Devil. I don’ wanna keep you from it. You just watch yourself now, son. It’s all gonna be fine, you hear me?”

“Boyd… how long am I gonna be here?”

“As long as it’s gon’ take.”

 

 

Devil pretty much spent the next forty-eight hours asleep, except for a bathroom break here and there where he changed the wound dressings, and Keegan bringing him lunch and dinner, and tea (that Devil didn’t drink, because for one he didn’t like tea, and for another because he suspected Keegan spiced his tea with illegal substances that Devil didn’t want any part of right now). 

On Monday night, after he’d had the talk with Quarles on Saturday morning, Devil decided it was time to give Robert Quarles the call he’d wanted. He felt better now. His side still pulled, naturally, but the fever, and Devil was sure now it had been a fever, had gone down. The pills most likely were antibiotics, after all. He had a hitch in his step, but he wanted to hide it the best he could, because it really was nobody’s business if he was hurt. Keegan had stopped questioning him about it quite quickly, and Devil wondered if the other occupants were starting to wonder about the guy that had the good guest room with a private bath and that had Keegan bring him his food to the nightstand like he was some kind of invalid.

Devil still was nervous when he called, but Quarles was short with him on the phone, like he was busy with something, and Devil could hear a child laughing in the background. He tried not to dwell on that. Quarles just told him to be at the office at 7 am, sharp, and although Devil was not amused about the early hour, he figured it was time he got out of this goddamn stuffy flat and entered the real world, Frankfort, Kentucky. He had to learn his lines now. Time to step up.

So he dragged himself out of bed at six o’clock the next morning, took a fast shower and woke Keegan to have him make coffee (there was something to be said about having a pothead servant who did everything for you because you had a bullet wound in the side) while Devil fastened a new dressing over his wound and assessed his laundry situation, which said that he was in dire need of asking Keegan for directions to a Laundromat. Asking Keegan to do his dirty laundry was out of the question though; Devil would only push it so far. And there was the fact that most of the tees he’d packed were blood-stained, and he thought that was disgusting to clean if it was someone else’s blood.

Drowning the coffee and swallowing some Advil alongside a slice of toast that Keegan practically force-fed him, Devil was late and had to jog out the door before anyone else out of the current occupants had even woken up enough to understand he was the mysterious guestroom guy. Running was still out of the question.

Devil knew he would have been faster if he’d taken the stairs up to Quarles’s office instead of the old elevator that moved from story to story at a snail’s pace, but he also knew if he’d tried to take the stairs he would not have made it up at all. Hence he arrived on the right floor being an entire two minutes too late.

“You’re late” Quarles greeted him accordingly. He waved his hand at the chair in front of his desk, an unspoken command to sit, not an invitation.

“Yep. Sorry.” Devil sat, not the ungraceful slump of the first day, but he couldn’t hide a wince.

“How are you doing today? How’s the side?”

“Better, on both accounts.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear, because I have work for you today.” Quarles smiled that strange smile of his, like he was Wednesday Addams and smiling was something painful and unfamiliar to him. Devil still saw it as the distorted mirror image of reality, and it was creeping him out to no end.

“That’s… good?”

“Yes, indeed it is. But first we have to clarify your areas of expertise. Now. I have looked into your criminal records, and I was able to learn from that that you did two stints in prison, one when you were 23 years old, for physical assault, and one only two years ago, for dealing with marijuana. Is that correct?”

“Uh, yeah. How in the hell were you able to see into my records, though?”

“You let that be my concern. So I am guessing that means that you have experience in dealing drugs, as well as no inhibitions about hurting people. Would you attest to that?”

“Yeah, sure.” Devil shrugged.

“Anything else you’re good at, Mr. Devil?”

“Well, I’m a pretty good shot.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“How good?”

Devil frowned in thought. “Good as… the longest shot I ever took was… maybe a hundred yards.”

“And it was a kill shot?”

“Most definitely was.”

“Well.” Quarles folded his hands and studied them. “That sounds fairly impressive. We’ll see how we can put that skill of yours to use some time. Generally, though, I am going to need you as what you would call a ‘leg breaker’.”

“Mh.”

“You know, going places, looking mean, intimidating, twisting an arm or two. You think you can do that?”

“So I’m just gonna be some run-of-the-mill gun thug.”

“Devil, you lost your privilege to be anything else when you let Crowder shoot you and run you out of Harlan County.” Quarles’s eyes flashed dangerously. “So if I were you, and I thank the heavens I am not, I would shut up and listen.”

Devil pressed his lips together, remembering what Tanner had said. The fucker’s unpredictable. The only reason Devil wasn’t dead was because Quarles had felt sorry for him. What Devil had to understand right now was that, when it came to Quarles, his lines consisted of silence, and his cues of when Quarles asked him a question. Devil cleared his throat and nodded.

“Alright.” Quarles smiled again like the little dispute had never happened. “Having the background that you do, I would have been able to use you as a drug dealer, as well, but as it is there’s no need for that currently, which means you’ll be my run-of-the-mill gun thug, like you said, and I would like for you to start doing that right now.”

“What do you mean, right now?” Devil sat up a little.

“There’s someone waiting outside that you will be partnered with for today, and I would like for the two of you to run an errand for me where it will be essential you two look mean and intimidating. No worries, though, you’ll be in a car most of the time, there won’t be any running involved” he added, his gaze going to Devil’s side for a second.

Quarles pressed a button on the intercom. “Suzan, would you send Russel in, please.”

“You’ll like him” he said, and now there was a hint of malice in his smile. Devil turned to the door when it opened and understood why.

Through the door came a very tall man, slim, but muscular, about Devil’s age, dressed in jeans and a simple gray t-shirt, and also he was as black as Barry White. Russel’s eyes skipped over Devil where he’d turned to him in his chair, over the Southern Justice tattoo on his arm, and his clothes, and settled on Quarles without any sign of even recognizing that Devil was actually in the room. Devil hated Quarles a tad bit more, if that was even possible.

“Russel, meet Devil. Devil, that’s Russel. I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” Smile, malice. Asshole. “What I would like for the two of you to do today is actually quite simple: I want the two of you to pick up a suitcase.”

Russel’s face struggled to remain impassive, but Devil’s eyebrow rose almost to his hairline. Really, a black dude and a white dude were sent to pick up a suitcase? That sounded awfully familiar to him, for some reason. 

“Then when you have obtained said suitcase, I want you to deliver it to an address in Louisville and the receiver of the suitcase will pay you with 10,000 $, cash. I want you to count the money before you end the transaction, because the man is a con and might try to screw you over. If he does, you shoot him” he looked at Devil. “If he does not, you take the money and come back here, and both of you will get a thousand each. Now how does that sound?”

“Uhm” Devil said. “Why do I have to shoot him if he tries to screw us over?”

“Because you have more experience in that department. Any more questions? No? Very good! The CAG flat where you’ll be picking up the suitcase is on Washington Street, not far away. My secretary will give you the address in Louisville. Thank you, that’s all.”

That was their cue to leave, so Russel and Devil exited the office and received a slip of paper from Suzan the Secretary that had an address in Louisville on it. They made the trip down the stairs in silence. Devil would have preferred the elevator for obvious reasons, but he wanted to hide any weakness in front of this nigger, even if it damn near killed him. The silence dragged on and neither one of them felt the need to break it, and when they reached the outside and Russel automatically walked over to his car, Devil shrugged and followed him. At least the nigger wouldn’t be sitting in his car, then.

Thank God Louisville ain’t far away, Devil thought and got into the passenger’s seat in Russel’s Ford Taurus. If the guy was half as boring as his car, Devil didn’t even want to break the silence. 

Washington Street was only five car minutes away, and neither one of them felt the need to say anything during those few long minutes. Then Russel, who already seemed to know exactly which house it was, put the car in park and said, “Wait here, I’ll be back in two minutes.”

It was the first thing Devil had ever heard him say. He didn’t sound particularly hostile. Maybe he just didn’t see the point. Sitting in the driver’s seat, Russel had a perfect view on the AB heart tattooed on Devil’s arm, as well as the Odin Rune on his neck, and Devil felt uncomfortable knowing it. He didn’t usually feel self-conscious about things, least of all his looks. He’d never had reason to. Now, though, he would be locked in this car with some nigger he had never even talked to and had to work together with him, and it made him uneasy. But if Russel could be not hostile about it, then Devil could, too. 

Russel came back then, with a black suitcase in hand that looked just like the suitcase from Pulp Fiction. Coupled with the fact that it was early in the morning, it let another wave of surrealism crash over Devil’s head. He sure as hell wouldn’t stop to have breakfast in any diner, just to be sure his life didn’t turn into some kind of screwed up movie homage. 

The drive to Louisville would take about an hour. Russel didn’t turn on the radio, either. Slowly but surely the silence began to weigh on Devil, and he couldn’t stop his leg from twitching again. If Russel noticed, he didn’t comment.

They had to halt at a traffic light, and Russel turned to look at Devil demonstratively. Devil looked at him, too, then, not about to be intimidated by a nigger. He raised an eyebrow as if to say, “What is it?”

“So, you’re Devil, huh. Heard about you.”

Devil frowned. “Heard about me? From who?”

Russel shrugged and looked back at the street. The light turned green. 

“I got kin in Noble’s Holler, you know. They told me you’s a traitor.”

“Oh.” Devil did look away, then.

“That all you got to say bout that? ‘Oh’?”

“Nobody likes folk who talk bout stuff they don’t know shit about, so why don’t you just shut up and drive.”

“Course, I don’t know shit. I’m just an ugly as fuck, stupid nigger, right?”

“I ain’t never said you’re stupid.”

“No, in fact you ain’t said nothin’ to me. Why’s that? You too good to talk to me? What with you bein’ the superior race and shit?”

Strangely enough, while Russel said this, he still did not sound the least bit pissed off or hostile. He sounded… curious.

“I didn’t say anythin’ to you cause I ain’t got nothin’ to say. And if I say you don’t know shit about what happened, it don’t mean you’re stupid, it just means you don’t know shit about what happened, and I don’t wanna talk about it. In fact, I don’t wanna talk at all. Liked the silence better.”

Devil had looked out of the window the entire time he’d been talking, and he didn’t turn to see what Russel’s reaction was now, either. Hearing Russel call him a traitor showed him quite plainly something he hadn’t even stopped to think about yet: The world saw him as a traitor now. Harlan saw him as a traitor now. Obviously, Noble’s Holler did, too. Not even Limehouse could know the truth. The only people that knew what exactly had happened that night were Boyd, Johnny and Devil himself. Devil was sure Boyd had told Ava and Arlo a condensed version. As far as everyone else knew, Tanner’s try to turn Devil against Boyd had worked, and Devil had left over night to live in Frankfort.

Devil himself knew he wasn’t a traitor. In Frankfort, though, and most of Kentucky, too, he was alone with that knowledge. And he couldn’t tell anyone either, because word could spread to Quarles and he would be dead in the blink of an eye. He had to endure people knowing something about him that wasn’t true, and he couldn’t even tell them how it really was.

The load of that secret was huge, fucking gigantic, and only now did Devil see it for what it really was. He was alone in carrying that weight. He was just fucking alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to whoever might live in 111 South Anderson Street, Tullahoma, Tennessee. I just needed an address in Tullahoma and completely randomly chose this one. Also, those of you who read "The Wolf Mother", you'll trip over a character whose name you might remember. No, that's not a coincidence, nor lack of imagination.  
> Enjoy.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

 

The Understudy

 

Chapter 3

 

The rest of the drive was passed in silence. It took them less than an hour to get to their destination thanks to blessedly empty streets.

“That’s the one” Russel said and pointed at one of the neat white houses that framed the street. 

“How can you tell? All them houses look the same. Where are the fuckin’ numbers?”

“On the mailboxes. Number thirty-three. This has to be it.”

They got out of the car. It was still early in the day, but not early enough for it to be this quiet, Devil thought. Not a single person was on the street, not a single sound to be heard but a bird here and there. The climate had warmed up again, and the heat was oppressive. In the glimmer of the air above the hot asphalt, the street looked dead, like a ghost version of itself.

Russel rang the bell, and Devil hung back a little and stayed on the sidewalk. Nothing happened. Russel rang a second time, and a third, then just hammered on the door, but the house stayed as dead and empty as the street it was on. Russel looked to Devil.

“Shit. He ain’t here. The hell we gon’ do now?”

Devil shrugged. “No idea. Did Quarles say what’s gonna happen if we come back without the money?”

“Nah. He didn’t need to, I can tell you that. It won’t be pretty.”

“Shit. If he sent me out here on a suicide mission and knew the guy wouldn’t be here, I’mma kill that son of a bitch, the money be damned!”

Russel studied his car and chewed on his lip, obviously trying to think of a solution for this problem, but Devil didn’t understand why he even bothered. If the guy wasn’t here, he wasn’t here, and then he couldn’t take the suitcase and give them the 10,000 dollars they’d come here for, and that meant they had jack shit to work with right now. You couldn’t just conjure up a guy with ten G’s on him out of thin air just because you thought about it hard enough.

Devil was close to just telling him so when the door of the house next to number thirty-three opened and an old lady looked at them through thick glasses.

“Hello, young men” she said, “are you the ones who wanted to bring Mr. Chandler his package? You don’t look like UPS, but Mr. Chandler said two men would come here with a package for him and that they would come by today, so…”

“Uh… yeah, that’s us” Russel said, catching on quickly, “we ain’t UPS, but we got a package to deliver to Mr. … Chandler. Ain’t that right?”

He looked at Devil expectantly, and Devil nodded. “Yeah, exactly. Mr. Chandler, he, uh, needs this package we got, he’s been waitin’ on it for ages. But now it seems like he ain’t home, ma’am.”

“Yes, he said to give the two of you a message” the old lady limped out of her house and Russel met her halfway. She pressed an envelope into his hand. “He told me he had to go and didn’t have your number, and to tell you he’s very sorry.”

“Thank you, ma’am” Russel said politely, and him and Devil watched as she limped back into her house. Knowing she was probably watching them from her window, they got in the car again and drove around for five minutes, until they found a parking spot in the shadow of a tree. 

“Alright, what the fuck. Open the goddamn letter, I wanna see what kinda message he left us” Devil said, already anxious it was going to be a “Screw you, I took the money and absconded to Tahiti” thing.

Russel didn’t need to be told twice. Ripping the envelope open, he took out a scrap of paper. In scribbly, shaky handwriting, it said:

‘Sorry, Quarles’s henchmen. I couldn’t stay here, it got too hot. Currently I’m at 111 South Anderson Street, Tullahoma, Tennessee. You want the money, you gotta come get it.

A. H.’

“Tullahoma, Tennessee” Russel repeated disbelievingly. “Tullahoma. Tennessee. Tennessee.”

“He called me a henchman, the asshole.” Devil frowned.

“Really? That’s your issue? Because I’m thinking that the dickhead is in another state right now, in… Tullahoma, wherever the hell that’s supposed to be, and that if we want to get the money, and we really, really want that, then we’re gonna have to go there and get it!”

“How in the hell are we even supposed to know whether he’s actually there in Tokaloona-”

“Tullahoma.”

“-whatever, and not in Mexico, laughin’ his ass off about the two idiots that wanted to pick up Quarles’s money? Quarles said, guy’s a con. He could be fuckin’ with us right now, and as good a shot as I am, I can’t shoot somebody I can’t see.”

“I know, man. Look. We got two options now. We can either call Quarles now and tell him the guy we’re supposed to be lookin’ for ain’t here and let him give us shit about it, or we can drive to … Tullahoma now and check if the guy’s there or not, and THEN we call Quarles and let him give us shit about it. And if the guy’s actually THERE and we find him, Quarles ain’t gon’ give us shit about it at all.”

Devil drummed his fingers on the window frame before sighing. “Okay. Fine. Let’s drive to Tuskaloosa.”

“Tullahoma.”

“Whatever. Just drive.”

 

 

The GPS Russel had installed in his car told them that Tullahoma was in the southern half of Tennessee and that it would take them at least four and a half hours to get there, and Devil was quietly fuming. If this asshole was not there and they did all of this shit for nothing, somebody was gonna die.

It made for another uncomfortable silence, during which Devil could feel Russel’s eyes on his tattoos. 

“You were favorin’ your side” Russel said, apropos nothing.

“Huh?”

“When we walked back to the car, I was walkin’ behind you and you were limpin’ a little, looked like you were favorin’ your left side. What happened?”

Devil rubbed his eyes. “You remember when I said I liked the silence? I meant that.”

“I ain’t gonna sit in a car with you for five hours and keep silent the whole time, you can forget that right now. You don’t wanna talk about your traitor-thing, fine, I get it. But we can talk about somethin’ else. So, what happened to your side?”

“Well.” Devil looked at him then, a wry expression on his face. “Since what happened with my side has directly to do with my ‘traitor-thing’, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“What’s it got to do with that?”

Devil sighed. This nigger seemed to be hell-bent on a conversation, and after almost three days of not talking to anybody but Keegan, he didn’t even mind so much. If Russel wanted to know, for God’s sake, Devil was gonna tell him, as much as he could.

“I got shot.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“In the side?”

“Well, of course it was my fuckin’ side, or did you see me favor anythin’ else?”

“No, man. Shit.” Russel was trying to sneak more looks at him than was advisable while driving. “Who did it?”

The corners of Devil’s mouth turned downwards. “Boyd did.”

“Boyd Crowder?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you betrayed him?”

“I think I told you I didn’t wanna talk about that.”

“Right. So, uhm. Did it hurt?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Well, how bad was it? I ain’t never been shot.”

“Be glad. It hurt like a motherfucker. Still hurts, in fact.”

“But not as bad, right?”

“Nah, not as bad.”

“Was that the first time you ever got shot?”

“No.”

“When was the first time?”

Devil closed his eyes then. “That’s another thing I don’t wanna talk about.”

“Jeez, man. If you wanna keep talkin’ to me, you gotta write me a list of topics I CAN talk to you about.”

“For the record, I didn’t wanna talk at all. You started it. It’s on you how the conversation goes.”

“Alright…” Russel fell silent again for a while, probably to think up something else he could ask Devil that would not serve to just satiate his curiosity about the things that had led Devil to Frankfort. Devil was thankful for the quiet once again. The caffeine he’d consumed this morning was already losing its effect on him, and he let the steady hum of the motor lull him into a light doze. Russel noticed and, thankfully, didn’t ask another question.

 

 

“Ey, yo, man, wake up.”

Devil felt someone shake his shoulder and let out a leftover snore that turned into a cough, which jarred his side uncomfortably.

“Wha’?”

“We’re here” Russel said and Devil opened his eyes and had to blink a few times to understand where he was and with who and why.

“Where?”

“111 South Anderson Street, Tullahoma, Tennessee.”

“Oh. Right.”

Devil sat up and groaned at the pain in both his neck and his side. “Shit. Jesus. Ow.”

“You alright, man?” Russel asked and Devil turned to him to see that this nigger was actually looking at him with something akin to concern in his eyes. Was Devil still asleep? Was he stuck in Twilight Zone again? This was getting to be a regular thing for him nowadays, apparently. He remembered just in time that Russel had asked him a question.

“Uh, yeah. Side hurts a little. Neck, too. I’m good.”

Devil realized that Russel had actually not said anything else to him, had heeded Devil’s wish for silence, and had just let him sleep, and he was thankful, actually grateful for that. He’d never been grateful to a nigger before. This day was getting stranger and stranger.

“Okay then, we should get out and get this shit done and over with.”

“I’mma kill him if he ain’t here” Devil mumbled, still not entirely awake and not noticing the complete nonsense he’d just uttered. Russel was considerate enough not to comment on it.

When Devil finally came around to getting out of the car, he found himself to be standing in a clean and empty street, quite similar to the neighborhood in Louisville where the guy they were supposed to meet had been hiding out first, except that the houses where a little bigger and further apart, and trees were decorating the sidewalks and front yards. 

Russel was already walking ahead, having determined the right house, and Devil followed after him, in no hurry to catch up. The nap in the car had not really done him that much good. He had a mean kink in his neck now, and his side was hurting more for some reason, or maybe Devil was just more aware of it now. His back didn’t take too kindly to it, either. Shit, Devil thought. I’m getting old.

He caught up to Russel just as he was ringing the door bell. 

“Do we even know the guy’s name?” Devil asked quietly.

“Nah. The grandma called him Mr. Chandler, the letter said ‘A.H.’, and Quarles just referred to him as ‘the receiver of the suitcase’. I guess you can pick one.”

“Do we know what he looks like?”

“No idea. But if it ain’t Samuel L. Jackson openin’ the door, we’ll just have to assume it’s him.”

“Alright.” Devil yawned into the crook of his elbow, and Russel arched a brow at him.

“You supposed to shoot him if he tries anythin’, remember?”

“Course I do, why, what is it?”

“Well, just sayin’, man, you look so tired I ain’t even sure you’d be able to hit the toilet if you took a piss.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll hit him alright. I don’t miss, not on a short distance.”

“You even packin’?”

“What d’you think I’d plan on shootin’ him with if I wasn’t? A breeze?” Devil rolled his eyes. Stupid nigger.

He had his Beretta 92FS in the back of his belt, like he always did when he left the house. He even had a goddamn license for it. It was something Boyd had asked him to get. The gun was also THE gun, the one he’d pointed at Boyd, the one Johnny had taken away from him, and Boyd had given it back to him before Devil left. It was the one he’d pointed at the fat bastard that had stolen Johnny’s bar. 

Devil liked that gun. It made him feel safe. And he had no qualms about using it. He just hoped he didn’t have to today.

“He’s sure takin’ his sweet time” Devil said when the door didn’t open after several minutes.

“Maybe he’s takin’ a shit.”

“Maybe he ain’t here.”

“Maybe he’s in a wheelchair and just takes time to get anywhere.”

“Nah, come on. I know someone who’s in a wheelchair, and Johnny’s good at gettin’ places, long as it ain’t upstairs.”

“Look, my point is, we should just wait a couple more minutes, he might show up after all. Maybe he’s just testin’ us, to see whether we’re serious about the money.”

“And we are?”

“Hell yeah we are! I don’t wanna know what that pasty asshole’s got in store for people who disappoint him.”

Devil shrugged. “If you make him feel sorry for you, he’s not gonna give you anythin’ but some antibiotics and a place to sleep.”

“Really?” Russel frowned. “That sounds more like Disney than him.”

Devil started to answer, but right at that moment the door swung open. The man inside the house was shorter than Devil, and had to be in his forties at least, because he was almost bald. Maybe though, he just had bad luck with genetics.

“Hello, fellas! I see you came after all.” He was wearing a bathrobe made out of red satin and had a cigar between his teeth like he was Hugh Hefner, and Devil immediately changed his mind about having to use his Beretta today. Let the fucker try shittin’ them. Devil wouldn’t mind.

“Glad Mrs. Weinstein gave you the message. She can be forgetful. Well, it’s the age, you know?”

“Yeah, great.” Russel held out his hand. “I’m Russel, this is Devil-”

“Devil? That’s cute!” The Hefner wannabe grinned around his cigar. “How’d you get that name?”

“You wanna know, or you wanna find out?” Devil growled.

“Anyway” Russel intercepted, “I was sayin’, we come in the name of Robert Quarles, and I’m guessin’ you know who that is.”

“I do.”

“And your name is?”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” He extended his hand towards Russel. “Arthur. Herk.”

He eyed Devil before saying, “I’m not gonna shake your hand.”

Devil shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

“If we could just go inside now, you know, talk bout business and shit” Russel said, waving his hand towards the house. “We don’t really need to do that on the street.”

“Oh, of course, good idea, Russel! Come inside. Come on.”

They did step into the house then, and it looked thoroughly lived in, and like the interior designer had gotten their mind stuck in the seventies. It smelled old, as well, like old dirt and old furniture, but also like old people. It didn’t exactly help to lighten Devil’s mood.

“So, Quarles sent you to get the money, huh?” Arthur Herk said in a conversational tone. “He must have some sense of humor. A black guy, and a white guy named Devil? Is this gonna turn into a buddy-cop-movie?”

“You take into account that he’s got an Aryan Brotherhood tattoo on his arm, I’d say it obviously ain’t.”

“Oh.” Herk’s gaze was immediately drawn to Devil’s arms to verify Russel’s statement, and he saw the AB heart alright; Devil crossed his arms just to make sure.

“I think you can guess why I ain’t in the best of moods right now” Devil said slowly, “so if you don’t give us the goddamned money we came here for, I’mma shoot both of you just for the hell of it.”

“Oh, okay, Hot Shot, calm down” Herk said, laughing and raising his hands. “You guys sure you don’t want a drink first? You know, chat a bit?”

“I ain’t that talkative today” Devil said.

“I can’t drink, I gotta drive” Russel added. “Sorry. So, how bout you just give us the money, cause I got the suitcase right here. We all got shit to do, so let’s not draw this out any more than we already have.”

“Already have? You just got here!”

“We did have to drive here, you know” Russel said and watched as Herk sat in a dusty old arm chair and smoked his cigar like he was Hannibal Smith and his plan had just come together. Devil started getting twitchy. Right now he wanted nothing more than to draw his gun and make the fucker shit his pants. But it seemed like Russel was a good talker (not as good as Boyd, of course, but then again, who was?), so it sounded like a good idea to let him do the talking for now.

“Oh yeah. Again, sorry. It just got too hot for me there.”

“Okay then. Where do you have the money at, Mr. Herk?”

“Please, call me Arthur.”

“Mr. Herk, I’m gonna call you whatever the hell I want, and if you don’t show us the money soon, we might lose our patience. See, Mr. Herk” and Russel sat himself comfortably across from Herk on the dusty old couch. Devil remained standing. He didn’t think he would be able to stand the smell. “I woulda been able to do this shit on my own, but Mr. Quarles sent this racist asshole with me” and he pointed at Devil over his shoulder, “as kind of an insurance, you know, because if you don’t do what I say, when I say it, Devil’s gon’ shoot you.”

Devil knew THAT cue, at least, and he pulled his Beretta out of his belt and pointed it at Herk, who looked comically surprised.

“Okay, boys” he said carefully, raising his hands again. “Why don’t we look at this from another-”

“Jesus Christ, do you ever shut up?” Devil ground out. “It’s like you’re talkin’ for hours and hours just to have nothin’ to say! I said I’mma shoot you, and don’t for a second think I won’t.”

“Mr. Herk” Russel said with a tone that was almost friendly, “you got the money we want, and we got the suitcase you want. It’s a simple thing, really.”

“This is how you’re playing it now, huh?” Herk’s eyes scurried from the barrel of Devil’s gun to Russel’s face to the suitcase at his feet and back. “Good cop, bad cop?”

“Is it workin’?” Russel asked, tilting his head expectantly.

Herk sighed. “I’m gonna get up now” he said, addressing Devil, or, more precisely, Devil’s gun. “Walk to the closet, get the money. Don’t shoot.”

“We’ll see” Devil said.

Everything else worked itself out quite quickly. Herk gave Russel a sports bag, and Russel counted the money to the last dollar. It added up. Then he passed Herk the suitcase, under the watchful eyes of Devil and his Beretta.

They got out of the house and into the car and onto the road back to Frankfort in a matter of minutes. Only then was Devil able to relax for a fraction again.

“Jesus, man, can you believe that guy? Gives the big player, with cigar and everythin’, and then I point my gun at him and suddenly he’s about two feet tall. The safety was still on!”

“Didn’t seem to me like the man knows enough about guns to be able to tell” Russel sighed. He sounded relieved that this ordeal was done and over with. “I wonder what the hell Quarles had to do with him.”

“I wonder what was in the suitcase” Devil added.

“True. It was light. Papers, maybe.”

“Musta been fuckin’ important papers, then, to make such a big fuss about ‘em.”

“Mh.”

They were quiet again for some time. It was afternoon already, and Devil’s stomach growled, accompanied by a slight stabbing in his gut. Man, he was hungry.

It was Russel who broke the silence once again.

“Would you really have shot me just for the hell of it?” he asked, not averting his gaze from the road.

Devil frowned. “Nah, man, I just said that to scare the guy. I don’t shoot unless I got a good reason.”

“Fair enough.”

Usually the conversation would stop now, but for some strange reason Devil couldn’t let it lie. “You really think I’m an asshole, huh.”

“You a racist asshole, I know that much.”

“Yeah, well. You’re alright, I guess. For a nigger.”

Russel snorted. “For what it’s worth, man, you ain’t the biggest asshole I know, and all things considered, we worked together okay. Don’t mean I wanna do this again anytime soon, though.”

“Amen to that” Devil said, slightly pulling up a corner of his mouth in a wry half smile.

“And I know you don’t wanna talk about it and shit, and I get it. I just wanna say, you don’t seem like a traitor, man. You seem more like the confrontational type. And every time you call me a nigger I just wanna pull over and beat the shit outta you, but since I’m guessin’ that might be a good reason for you shoot, I ain’t gon’ do it.”

“Huh” Devil murmured. “Alright.”

“So why don’t we just make an agreement, say, you don’t call me a nigger, and I don’t beat you, and you don’t shoot me. How’s that sound?”

“Uhm… reasonable?”

“You’re right, it’s pretty reasonable. So, cool, man. We got a deal?”

“Sure.” Devil sighed, already getting tired again. “Why the hell not. We got a deal. So, if I can’t call you a nigger anymore… what was your name again?”

“Funny. Real funny.”

“’kay then, Real Funny. Look at the road from time to time while you’re drivin’, huh?”

Devil didn’t hear what else Russel had to say on the matter. He closed his eyes and nodded off to the feeling that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he’d initially thought; after all, he WAS good at making friends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 2nd half of this chapter is rather dark and contains hints at child prostitution and PTSD, and other heavy imagery.  
> Also, a character that's mentioned is actually an OC created by TellatrixForever (check his profile out on ff.net).
> 
> Enjoy.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

 

The Understudy

 

Chapter 4

 

The Arthur Herk Job, as Devil referred to it later, was the most exciting and time-consuming job Quarles had for Devil during the next two weeks. He checked in with Quarles at his office about two or three times a week, got his orders, and got money if he’d done a successful job beforehand. Suzan, the black-haired secretary, was giving him the eye sometimes, but Devil wasn’t interested. Her voice was squeaky like a ten-year-old’s and even if it weren’t, Devil’s side was still bugging him and he estimated it would be at least another two weeks until he was able to bang someone again.

He locked himself in the bathroom and called Boyd on a regular basis. Boyd told him about his old Army buddy who’d come looking for a job, and what had come out of that. Devil asked Boyd whether he could come home now. Boyd said no.

People came and went in the CAG flat. Devil still occupied the good guest room, and only few people ever questioned it, even fewer people ever questioned it directly to Devil’s face. Most of them just asked Keegan who the guy was that got to sleep in the only available bed while everyone else had to make do with futons, sleeping bags and the floor. And Keegan, who occupied the big couch because he was the flat owner, after all, would explain to them that Devil had just gotten shot and needed the rest and was also working directly for Robert Quarles and that this came with certain privileges. 

Devil had heard one of these discussions once, and he winced at the last part. It still pissed him off that people thought he was Quarles’s henchman. That one time, he’d just gotten out of the shower and was naked except for black cargo pants that still smelled comfortably like laundry detergent (turned out Keegan didn’t mind washing Devil’s clothes after all, blood or no blood), and it had pissed him off so much that he opened the door and saw Keegan and some asshole he’d never seen before stand in the hallway not five feet away from him.

The conversation came to a screeching halt. Keegan looked apologetic, but Devil only stared at the other guy. Tall, with a pretty face and leather jacket. He stared right back at Devil, anger apparent in his expression.

“You got somethin’ to say to me?” Devil said in a low voice. “You say it to my face.”

“Fine” Leather Jacket said gruffly. “I just wanted to know why the hell you get to sleep in the bed while all the other assholes gotta sleep on the floor like this. It ain’t fair.”

“I don’t give a shit bout ‘fair’, man. You gotten shot recently?”

“No” Leather Jacket answered and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, but Devil saw him sneak a look at the wound in his side. It was uncovered and in plain sight for the very first time, but Devil thought it looked better now. The scars would probably be pretty big and star-shaped since he hadn’t bothered to get any treatment. It was starting to scab over on both sides, though, and to someone who hadn’t seen it the first day, when Devil’d gotten a fever from it, it had to look quite nasty.

“Then go and get yourself shot and you can have the bed, man. Until then, though, you shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Leather Jacket took a step in his direction, squaring his shoulders and putting on a threatening demeanor, and it worked because of his size. He spontaneously reminded Devil of Boyd’s Marshal friend with the hat who could do that perfectly – square his shoulders and stare at you with that kind of threat it his eyes, and suddenly you felt like maybe taking a step or two back and shutting the hell up. 

This wasn’t the Marshal, though, this was just some kid with a leather jacket who Devil was not about to back down from, even if the kid was probably able to beat him up, especially right now, in Devil’s injured situation.

“Listen, man” Leather Jacket growled, and Devil almost laughed because he sounded like such an idiot, “I came all the way down here from Kansas, I spent 9 hours at a stretch on the road, and now I get here and this asshole here” he pointed at Keegan, “tells me that all the futons are taken and I need to sleep on the floor? On the FLOOR?”

“Shoulda come earlier, and you woulda gotten a futon” Devil shrugged. “Ain’t my fault Kansas is so far away. Ain’t his, either. Now, I don’t give two shits about you and where you came from and if you’re gonna sleep well tonight, maybe dream of your momma or what not. You don’t wanna sleep on the floor, fine. Get a fuckin’ motel. This ain’t a congress, it’s the Dixie Mafia. I already been here some time. I got dibs on the bed as long as I fuckin’ feel like it.”

“You son of a-”

“If you’re really so goddamned keen on sleepin’ in that bed” Devil interrupted him, “go ahead and talk to Quarles about it. I’m sure the two of you can figure somethin’ out.”

That shut Leather Jacket up alright, and Devil knew that, as keen as Leather Jacket was on sleeping in a proper bed, nobody in their right mind would be keen on talking to Quarles. Devil was also quite aware that if he actually molested Quarles with any of these ridiculous issues like they were all in kindergarten and Quarles was their teacher, Quarles would most likely have his head. But Leather Jacket was already stomping back into one of the sleeping rooms, silently fuming. That was the last Devil ever saw or heard of Leather Jacket. He’d never bothered to even learn his name, and he was gone the next morning, before Devil even woke up.

There were those who only stayed one night, like Leather Jacket. Then there were those who stayed two nights, sometimes more, but no-one ever stayed longer than a week. Devil was unique in that way. Three weeks in, he started feeling better again and not like falling asleep after walking some stairs, so he was up and about even when he wasn’t working for Quarles, and he showed himself in the flat during the day, greeting new arrivals with a nod and a point to the sleeping rooms, saying things like, “I hope you brought a sleepin’ bag, cause all the futons are taken. Got a full house today” and stuff. He was starting to feel more at home.

Keegan didn’t bring him dinner to his room anymore because Devil took up the habit of eating with Keegan in the living room, on the gigantic sofa in front of the TV. Turned out they shared similar tastes in movies and chicks, and were both voting for Team Terrorist and Maggie Q during “Live Free or Die Hard”, and booed out Angelina Jolie and her strange facial expressions and bony shoulders during “Mr. & Mrs. Smith”.

Sometimes they were joined by other occupants of the flat, but mostly they were left to themselves, and Devil was fine with that. As much of a people person as he was, being surrounded by strangers all the time for weeks on end, it stressed him more than he would have liked to admit. Hell, he thought to himself during a quiet moment shortly before falling asleep. Anyone would be stressed out by that.

Then one day some guy came in early in the morning, like Devil had. It was 5 am and Devil was already up because Quarles wanted him in the office at 6:30 that day. Keegan had woken up with Devil, as if he had a sixth sense for Devil’s alarm clock, and was making coffee when Devil got out of his room after taking a shower and heard the door bell.

“Can you get it?” Keegan half-called from the kitchen, not wanting to wake up those who were still asleep. “I kinda got my hands full, dude.”

“Sure” Devil said, and rubbed the towel over his head again. 

“Quick, dude, before he rings again!”

“Yeah, man, chill.”

When Devil answered the door he came face to face with a guy that kinda looked like the brunette kid from the Twilight movies, with black hair and dark skin, possibly Native American decent. His hair had a military cut, though, and he stood there straight as a pole even though he had to be tired as all hell. 

“I’m Caleb Danvers, and if you’re Keegan, you don’t look as advertised.”

Devil huffed a laugh at that. “That’s cool, cause I ain’t Keegan. I’m Devil. Come on in.”

They shook hands and Caleb took a look around. “Where is Keegan, then? I thought he was supposed to know when I came in.”

“Oh, he’s in the kitchen, makin’ some coffee. You want some? Look like you could use it.”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer. Where can I drop my shit?”

“Uhm, well…” Devil looked at the two adjoining rooms that were stuffed with sleeping people.

“You can store it in the guest room for now, I guess. You can even catch some sleep if you want to. I’mma head out in about an hour anyway, so I ain’t gonna need it.”

“What’s the difference between the ‘guest room’ and those rooms?”

“Well, these are the sleepin’ rooms, with futons and sleepin’ bags. The guest room is entirely exclusive. It’s got a separate bathroom and a BED.” Devil emphasized the last word.

“And beds are something special round here?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And you get to sleep in the bed, I get that right?”

“Yep. I got dibs on it. Courtesy for gettin’ shot.”

Caleb barely raised a brow. “I reckoned that’s what this is.” He pointed at the wound in Devil’s side. He hadn’t gotten around to fastening a bandage on it and putting on a shirt, so it was in plain sight again.

“I’ve seen quite a lot of those. You treated this yourself, I see.”

“Well” Devil shrugged. “I seen my fare share, too, so I guessed I’s gon’ be fine.”

“I’m so sorry” Keegan said, coming from the kitchen and wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “I just wanted to pour some coffee, but then the whole machine tilted sideways and I had to catch it, and then I wanted to put it back on the counter and make it stand upright, but it just wouldn’t, and then I, I wanted to make new coffee since the one I’d made had spilled all over the floor, but it didn’t work because it wasn’t plugged in anymore…”

Keegan blinked at them. “Man, it woulda worked better if you hadn’t spent the whole night watching ‘Misfits’ and smokin’ dope” Devil said, and Keegan shrugged. 

“Ah, no, dude. Now it worked just fine, I got some coffee made. You wanna?”

“Yeah, sure” Devil said and yawned, stretching carefully.

“You offered Caleb some? You are Caleb, right? Tanner called me, said you’d show up at some point today.”

“Yeah, I’m Caleb Danvers, and no, I don’t need any coffee. I would like to take you up on the offer of the bed, though.”

“Sure, man, I’mma show you. Just let me get bandaged up and dressed and the place is all yours.”

Devil did as he said, showed him bathroom and bed and mildew, then proceeded to get ready for the day. He’d gotten fairly good at fastening bandages by now, what with all the practice he’d had over the last weeks, and was done in no time. Rummaging through his bag, he decided it was laundry time again. 

Caleb had taken off his shoes and jacket and was lying on the bed now, watching as Devil pulled on a shirt that passed the sniff test, then donning his beloved vest. When he checked the clip of his Beretta and whether the safety was still on, Caleb spoke up.

“How long you been here, man?”

“Almost a month now” Devil answered. It was true; another five days and his first monthly anniversary of arriving in Frankfort would roll around. The time had flown by, and Devil was homesick.

“And you still sleep in the guest room?”

“If all goes well, I ain’t gonna stay here much longer” Devil said. What he meant was, “If Boyd decides to let me come back”, but he could hardly phrase it that way.

“Yeah, but, I thought this was just a temporary residence thing. Coming and going, right? It’s what Tanner told me.”

Devil shrugged. “Yeah, well. It was always temporary, but Quarles never exactly talked to me about whether I should get my own place or not if it turned out to be a longer stay. I ain’t never thought about it. I’m startin’ to feel at home, now, too.”

He stuffed his cell phone into the pocket of his pants and gave Caleb a nod. “Alright, man. I’m gettin’ outta your hair now. Get some sleep. How long you gon’ stay here?”

Caleb shrugged. “A couple days, maybe more.”

“Alright. I’ll see you tonight, maybe.”

When Devil exited the guest room, he almost ran into Keegan who stood in the hallway like he’d pressed his ear against the door.

“You offered him the guest room?” he asked excitedly. Devil frowned.

“Yeah, sure. Why not? The sleepin’ rooms are cramped to the ceilin’ and he can’t get no rest on the couch, so – and I’mma be gone all day, too, so what’s the big fuzz?”

“Nothin’, just” Keegan looked thoughtful. “You ain’t never offered anyone the guest room. It was, kinda, your room now, you know?”

“So what.” Devil passed him and got himself some much needed caffeine in the kitchen, alongside a slice of toast. He never had much of an appetite in the morning, especially if it was as brutally early as it was now, but Keegan was going to force him to eat something anyway, so Devil thought he could beat him to it and behave like an adult for once.

“I’m just surprised, dude, that’s all. Looked like the two of you get along well.”

“He does remind me of my cousin a bit. Nathan. He’s with the Marines. I bet you that guy’s Military, too. Got that look about him, and then the haircut.”

“Mh. Pass me the toast.”

They ate breakfast in the living room while watching some stupid cartoons on TV on low volume while the sun was slowly rising up outside the window, casting shadows in the dimly lit room, and just for a moment there, Devil really felt right at home.

 

 

When Devil finally got back to the flat, the sun was already sinking. Most of the people that had been there this morning had vacated, so the sleeping rooms were empty safe for two guys who’d gotten here shortly after Devil left and decided to turn in early. They’d taken two out of the four available futons and had the rare opportunity, due to the current vacancy, to have one room all to themselves.

The Military guy that had arrived this morning, Caleb, was sitting on the couch and blankly stared at the TV, like he was not really seeing it at all. Keegan was stretched out on the short end of the sofa, the one that ran along the wall under the window, and snored quietly. The entire flat was completely quiet except for the steady hum of the muted TV that flashed its pictures through the room like some kind of small indoor light show. Caleb looked up when Devil entered.

“Hey” he said.

“Hey there” Devil answered in kind.

“All them people left round noon” Caleb said, casting a look at the sleeping rooms. 

“I figured. Maybe they’re here for the same thing, I didn’t stop to ask ‘em. When’d he fall asleep?”

Caleb turned to look at Keegan. “Bout half an hour ago. Said he wanted to be awake when you get home so he can make you dinner. Sounds like he’s your housewife or summin’.”

“Well, he does do my laundry for me sometimes” Devil shrugged. “I don’t ask him, he just does it. Thinks I’m a hero. Anyway, don’t wake him, I ain’t hungry.”

And Devil wasn’t. Not after the day he’d had.

Quarles had told him that day of the Arthur Herk Job that Devil was going to be a ‘leg breaker’, and Devil had understood it as ‘gun thug’. Turned out Quarles understood the term as more literal than Devil could have liked. Quarles had him drive to a place in the middle of nowhere and talk to someone that owed Quarles money, and that, should they not be able to deliver the money, Devil should beat them up. Do not shoot them, Quarles had specifically told him. Just beat them. Slap them around a little, until they cave in. Because that was what a leg breaker did. And if he had to, Devil was supposed to break their legs, too. 

Devil had no qualms about hurting people, never did. He figured that if his daddy had been able to beat him up as much as he had, hurting someone could not be that offensive, especially if it got you what you wanted. So Devil lived by that philosophy. And he was not afraid when he took on today’s job. He was pissed, of course, to be doing such a low-grade job for the pasty asshole like he was some kind of errand boy. But he just needed to remind himself that it was actually Boyd’s order he was following here, and all was well.

And then Devil arrived at the place he was supposed to break somebody’s legs at, and all he found was a teenaged nigger boy in a dirty flat that was about as big as a medium sized walk-in closet. The place was run-down and shabby, and the nigger, who was just a boy, really, just a kid, was scared, just afraid, and he was crying, saying he’d get the money to Quarles, he’d manage, somehow, he would.

Devil felt pity, surprisingly sharp and aching, in his chest, considering this was just some lousy nigger who was obviously also an addict, judging from the amount of empty pill bottles piled up next to the stained, smelling sofa. He also knew it was all lies, because the boy had nothing he could sell, no way to get that money, but to maybe sell himself, and Devil wasn’t even sure there would be takers for that here in the south. Even so, the amount of fucking he would have had to do to get the amount of money he owed to Quarles, it was just impossible. And beating him up, breaking his legs, Devil understood perfectly that it would not change that. People who had nothing, nothing of worth but their own lives, did not suddenly start shitting money just because you broke their legs and punched them in their pitiable, hollowed out faces. Beating the nigger would not make him shit money, and it wouldn’t undo his addiction, either. Running was out of the question as well, Devil thought, because if the boy was still here, he would not run, because he could not. And even if he could, where to? 

Devil, who himself had not had the happiest of childhoods, had still been living with his daddy when he’d been at the age that boy had to be. He hadn’t loved his daddy, had hated him for the uncalled for beatings, had turned from him the first chance he got – but at that age, he’d still had some place he could call home. It was a home that would never win a prize for what it was, but it was a home still. And this boy, if he’d ever had one, had not had it in a very long time. 

The nigger would not be able to get the money. The nigger, the boy, he was dead.

Devil left again without touching the boy. He knew if Quarles heard about it he would get in trouble for it, but the whole question of “what for?” had taken everything out of him. His side hurt worse than it had in days, and his stomach was aching, too. It was like his whole body was trying to stop him from doing what Quarles had told him to.

So when Devil heard that Keegan wanted to cook him dinner, his aching stomach lurched. He still had the smell of the nigger boy’s flat in his nose, a combination of shit, piss, vomit and jizz, and it just wouldn’t pass. The images of the boy’s sick face, the lacerations around his mouth and nose and on his cheeks and forehead that came from overly drug use, and the sound of his sobs would not leave Devil’s head. He was tired when he sat down on the couch next to Caleb, so, so tired. So tired and homesick and goddamned depressed.

“You alright?” Caleb asked.

“Yep. Jus’ tired. Long day.” Devil kept his eyes closed.

“You sleep okay in the bed?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks for, you know, offering it. Keegan told me it was kinda your room.”

“Ain’t my room. It’s the guest room. You a guest, you sleep in the guest room. Logical, right?”

“Mh.”

“You Military?”

“How could you tell?” Devil heard the surprise in Caleb’s voice and smirked a little.

“Just a guess. You got that posture about you, kinda like my cousin. He’s always standin’ straight, an’ lookin’ so serious, just like you do.”

“And he’s in the Army?”

“Marines. Ain’t heard from him in like twenty years, but back then, he was in full soldier mode almost all the damn time.”

“What’s his name?”

“Nathan. Nathan Lennox.”

“Nathan.” Caleb repeated it lowly for himself. Devil wanted to ask him why he’d wanted to know, but Caleb spoke up first.

“Did he see combat?”

“Uh, yeah, I think he did.”

“Did he ever say he regretted it?”

At that Devil opened his eyes and gazed at Caleb. The man was staring at the TV again, not seeing the flashy pictures, but staring at something beyond it that was probably just in his own mind.

“I asked Nathan once” Devil answered carefully, “bout how it was, and he said he couldn’t express it. He came back a little… harder, you know. Little sharper round the edges. But he never once gave anyone the impression he regretted doin’ it.”

Caleb nodded slowly.

“You wanna tell me why you asked me that?”

“Th-” Caleb started, and broke off again, blinking. He tore his eyes away from the TV in favor of looking at his hands, folded in his lap.

“They tell you how to create an It, instead of a person, and how to kill It. But, they never taught me how to switch that off again. I c- I, I can’t switch it off, you know? I see people, and I just… I just can’t switch it off. If I could travel back in time and withdraw my application, I… God. God.”

Caleb stopped talking then and buried his face in his hands. Devil said nothing.

He remembered a time when he himself had been playing with the idea of joining the Army. Like every young man at the age of eighteen he’d had to make that decision – join the Army, yes or no? There was only so much you could do in Harlan without having finished high school that was completely legal; you joined the Army, or you worked the mines. 

Devil had decided against the Army back then, and he’d later spent much of his time regretting that decision. Boyd, though, after they’d met and gotten acquainted, had told him to be glad he’d made that decision back then. Listening to Caleb’s heavy breathing now, he thought maybe Boyd had a point there.

Thinking of the good as dead nigger boy, though, Devil had to wonder how many decisions you had to make to get someplace you were maybe supposed to be; and how could you know whether it was a good decision you made or not? After getting over the supposedly wrong choice he’d made back then about working the mines instead, Devil had not spent much of his life second-guessing himself. He pictured the nigger boy, and he thought that even if he should have done that, if you reached a certain point in your life, it was too late to start.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of the n-word and brain matter flying through the air; beware.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

 

The Understudy

 

Chapter 5

 

After his outbreak Caleb had excused himself and hurried into the guest room, not looking at Devil once like he was afraid of what he might see in Devil’s face. Devil heard the door close down the hallway and took off his shoes. Keegan was still snoring soundly, not having heard one word of the exchange, and Devil turned on the volume of the TV and made himself comfortable; since the guest room was taken now and Devil had no intention of kicking Caleb out, he would have to sleep on the couch. It was big enough anyway; three people could have slept on it easily without getting in each other’s way.

Thoughts on Caleb and the nigger boy and Nathan kept him awake until the early hours of the morning, and seemingly only minutes after he’d finally fallen asleep, the door bell rang and woke him up with a start. He could hear Keegan fall off the couch in his haste to stand up.

“Ouch! Damn… Devil, you ‘wake?”

“No” Devil ground out and grabbed for a blanket that wasn’t there. It took him a couple seconds to understand he wasn’t in the guest room anymore.

“S’okay, stay there, I’ll get the door.”

Keegan did manage to get up then and let in whoever it was that stood in front of the flat in this ungodly hour. Quiet words were exchanged in low voices that mingled with the sounds of the TV that Devil had forgotten to turn off. Rustling of clothes, steps down the hallway muffled by the carpets… one sound blended into another and Devil fell into a shallow doze where he kept seeing the nigger boy’s flat, but it wasn’t the nigger boy there whose legs he was supposed to break. It was Caleb in one moment, then another person entirely in the next; and then it was himself, lying on the ground in Johnny’s bar, and Boyd was standing above him saying that he wasn’t gonna make it back, calling him son. Devil wanted to apologize, scream, say Boyd’s name, anything, but he could not make a sound.

He woke up to a hand on his shoulder and took a swing, not entirely sure it had really been a dream. Luckily Caleb had good reflexes and managed to duck out of the way before grabbing his arm in an iron-like grip.

“Hey, Devil, man, it’s me, wake up.”

“Wha’… ow. Ow.” Devil blinked against the harsh light of day. “Ow. Okay, I’m awake now, you can let go.”

“Yeah, sure.” Caleb did let go of his arm, and Devil shook it to get the numb feeling out. There were gonna be bruises later, he could tell.

“Sorry, man, just, you kept making strange noises and twitched and stuff, looked like you were having a nightmare.”

“Yeah. Thanks. For, uh, wakin’ me. Sorry I tried to punch you.”

“No big deal. You alright?”

“Yeah. You?”

Caleb looked away then, and said, “Yeah, fine” to his shoes. Devil was pretty sure they’d both just lied to each other.

“Okay. What time is it, anyway?” Devil yawned heartily and looked around. He heard noise in the kitchen, but no voices; the sleeping rooms were empty save for the new arrival of this morning who’d curled up on one of the futons and snored like a bear.

“Almost noon. You gotta go somewhere today?”

“Uh, maybe…” Devil dug for his cell phone that he’d turned on silent alarm on the way home. He had seven missed calls, all from Quarles, all within the last two hours. Shit. He had to have been pretty far gone to not have felt the vibration against his leg.

“Shit. Gotta make a call, one second.”

Devil stood up, his side jarring just a little now, and locked himself into the common bathroom. If Quarles was going to give him shit about not answering his phone, he didn’t want anyone to hear him grovel.

“Devil, I hope you have a good explanation for why I couldn’t reach you” Quarles said in way of a greeting when he picked up the call.

“Uh, sorry. I was asleep. Dead to the world, really.”

“Oh. Well, I sure hope you’re feeling better now.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m awake. What is it I can do for you?”

“I need you to come to the office, yesterday.”

Quarles sounded majorly pissed off and hung up on Devil then. It didn’t sound too good, but what choice did he have but to face the lion’s den? He figured there was still time to take a shower, though. He could still smell the nigger boy’s flat on himself and was sure he wouldn’t be able to eat anything until he got rid of it. Devil was almost sure the whole thing was only in his mind and really the smell had left him as soon as he hit the road back to Frankfort yesterday. But his body still needed a reminder of it. And since he was late anyway, a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

Half an hour later he turned up at Quarles’s office, hair still damp, and was surprised to run into Russel when he stepped out of the elevator.

“Hey, Funny!” Devil greeted him with as big a grin as he was able to at that moment. Russel frowned.

“My name’s Russel.”

“Sure, if you says so.”

Russel rolled his eyes a little, but looked amused.

“You’re late, man. Quarles is fumin’; we’re all just waitin’ on you.”

“Oops. Well, I had my phone in my pocket and still slept through all them calls. Guess I needed the rest.”

“How’s the side?”

“Healin’ fine.”

“You still don’t wanna talk about it?”

“You still don’t want me to call you that thing where you wanna punch me?”

“Okay, I get it. I ain’t gon’ ask you.”

“Good. So, you got any idea what this is about? Quarles just told me to get here, nothin’ else.”

“Nah, ain’t got no clue. Just said somethin’ bout some Norwegian business men and that he’d explain it when you got here, cause he didn’t wanna do it twice.”

“Well, I’m here now. Should we just, I dunno… knock?”

“Yeah, sure. You go in first.”

“Why me?”

“Hey, man, I got here on time, not two hours late.”

Devil just grunted his assent and knocked, not really afraid of what Quarles was going to do or say. That everybody was waiting for him to arrive sounded like they needed him for this job, so any real harm was out of the question.

“Come in” they heard Quarles call through the door, and then Devil had to listen to Quarles chew him out about not answering his phone, how he always had to be on call, that him getting shot had been almost a month ago and that he had to be at the top of his game again, that Quarles couldn’t abide this kind of irresponsible behavior, that if Quarles was anyone else Devil wouldn’t have a job anymore, and so on and so forth. All Devil thought during that little speech was that at the end of this whole ordeal he was gonna kill the son of a bitch, with Boyd’s approval or without it. 

“Now” Quarles said after regaining his composure. “I did call you here for another reason than to give you a dressing-down. Please sit, the two of you.”

Russel and Devil did as asked. Quarles studied them for another moment, then gave them that creepy fake smile that he apparently thought looked reassuring on him. Someone should tell him he looks like he’s in pain when he does that, Devil thought. Playing poker against that man had to be like playing rock-paper-scissors against a monkey, and if Devil, who really wasn’t that good at poker, was sure of it, that was saying something.

“As I already told Russel, there are some Norwegian business men in town currently, four of them to be exact, and they are looking to invest in the Oxy business. They said on the phone they might be interested in not only buying, but also in working together, with me.”

Quarles made a pause for effect here. “And after thinking about it, I, as the two of you would say, call bullshit.”

Devil raised a brow then. “Why, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“It just seems a little too straightforward to me. I can’t explain it, maybe it’s kind of my… sixth sense for defrauders.”

Devil almost snorted. He was the living proof that this sixth sense did not exist. But he managed to just nod thoughtfully and make a vacuous humming sound in response.

“So when I go and meet them later in the day, I am going to need back-up, so I won’t be unprotected when I go into this meeting, in case my sixth sense is right and they are more looking into killing me than actually working with me. I already have one bodyguard waiting downstairs by my car, but I would like for you, Russel, to be the second one.”

“And what about me?” Devil asked, confused.

“Well, see, these men could be quite handy with a gun. I am going to need further back-up to ensure my safety.”

“And I’mma provide that how exactly?”

“You said you’re a ‘pretty good shot’, if I remember correctly” Quarles said, using quotation fingers. “Have you ever used a sniper rifle?”

“Well” Devil frowned. “I got a Ruger Mini-14 with a sniper scope, did my longest kill shot with that, so it can’t be that big a difference, right?”

“Did you pack that rifle?”

“No, I didn’t. I was kinda in a hurry to leave, you know?”

“Yes, I know. Well, I’m afraid I can’t provide you with that Rudger Minnie…”

“Ruger Mini-14.”

“Yes, that one, I’m afraid I cannot provide you with that one. You’ll have to make do with what André has procured for me on this special occasion. I would want a sniper on a roof somewhere close as back-up, Devil, and since I have no sniper on my hands right at this moment, you, young man, are the next best thing.”

“You want me to sit on a roof somewhere and shoot those Norwegian suckers if they do somethin’ wrong, that’s what it is?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I would like for you to do today. You think you can manage that?”

“Well. Yeah.” Devil scratched his head. “Sure. I’mma need to see the rifle, take a couple practice shots, I guess, to see whether I can see through the scope and handle the kickback.”

“Okay, if that’s all it’s going to take.” Quarles picked up his phone and called his secretary. “Suzan, be a dear and send André up here with the rifle, thank you.”

He hung up and nodded to Devil. “André will be able to give you the information you are going to need. Personally, I’m not that knowledgeable when it comes to bigger, semi-automatic firearms. We’re going to drive through the woods on our way to the place where the meeting will go down, so you can take your practice shots there. Alright?”

“Sure.” Devil shrugged. What choice did he have? At least with shooting he was in his comfort zone. Shooting was something he was good at, something his father had taught him when he was still a child. Little Derek had known how to use a hunting rifle before he’d been properly able to use cutlery. He knew how rifles were supposed to feel and smell in his hands. When Devil was holding a rifle, he felt safe. He hated the thought of killing someone on Quarles’s behalf, had, for some reason that appeared utterly naïve to him now, never expected that to happen. But then he thought about the non-existent sixth sense the man prided himself on, and he hoped it just wouldn’t come to that.

André did come up the rifle then, and it was a scoped Colt M4A1, a beautiful rifle, slightly heavier than Devil was used to, but he was sure he’d manage. They got on the road in a soccer-mom-type van that Devil felt a little out of place in, and Quarles made good on his promise to let Devil take some practice shots in the woods. The first three were a little off, with Devil trying to adjust to the weight, range and alignment. He looked for a target through the scope and found a tree with a rather large knothole on the side about 150 yards far that made for a perfect target. Shot number four scraped its outer rims. Five and six hit the bulls-eye. Seven was a little off again when the kickback jarred Devil’s side. Eight was bulls-eye again, and nine killed a stray bird that passed the tree at a height of about seven feet at the wrong time.

“Impressive” André said, who’d followed the target practice with binoculars. “I think you’re good.”

“I know I am” Devil corrected him and shouldered the rifle, proud of himself.

They continued the drive and arrived at the place for the meeting two hours early, just in case the Norwegians were there early, as well. The meeting would happen on a large public square in a park; Devil didn’t even exactly know where they were at, if they were still in Kentucky, or already in Indiana, or maybe even Ohio. If they had crossed any borders, he hadn’t been aware. There was one building close enough for Devil to set up shop on the roof. Quarles gave him an earpiece through which he would be able to listen in on Quarles’s part of the conversation. Watches were compared. Devil got sent on the roof, and Quarles, Russel and André hid the car about half a mile away so it wouldn’t be seen and then walked the distance back to seat themselves on some benches, André and Quarles on one bench and Russel on another one maybe twenty feet from them. Russel proceeded pretending to text on his phone, and Quarles pretended to read a paper while André looked around. 

Devil checked his cell phone. One and a half hours until the time of the meeting. What the hell was he supposed to do now? His phone rang just in time. It was Russel.

“Hey, Funny” Devil greeted him.

“Hey, man. You bored yet?”

“Out of my fuckin’ mind. Am I just supposed to wait here? I’ll get sunstroke!”

“You might, you know, the shiny white bastard that you are.”

“Hey now, if I’m a shiny white bastard, what’s Quarles then?”

“That’s easy. If he were any more white, he would be see-through.”

Devil laughed until he had tears in his eyes, and he heard Russel try to suppress his chuckles over the line, not being quite successful with it.

“Ah-hum. Thanks, man, I needed that.”

“No problem. How’s it goin’ up there anyway, ‘cept for impendin’ sunstroke? You think you can even get a, uhm, good view?”

“Well, it’s gotta be 150 yards at least, maybe more. I ain’t never had to shoot that far. The scope’s pretty good, though, and the air’s calm as you please, so maybe.” Devil waited a beat before adding, “Though I hope it ain’t gon’ come to that.”

“I thought so. Me neither, by the way. I ain’t never had to, uh, do that. I didn’t really wanna start now.”

“You ain’t never shot somebody?” Devil couldn’t mask his surprise.

“Nah. I’m more of the… physical type, if you get my meanin’.”

Devil thought of the leg breaker thing and thought he might.

“But you packin’, right?”

“Yeah, HE wanted me to.”

“And you do know how to shoot straight?”

Devil looked through his scope and focused it on Russel, and he saw him shrug uncomfortably.

“Well, I can hit a tin can from thirty feet, an’ that’s about it.”

“Sounds… impressive.”

“Shut up, Mr. ‘I don’t miss on short distance’. It’s gonna have to be enough for today.” 

Devil believed he heard a touch of insecurity in his voice.

“It’s gonna be, Funny, you don’t worry. I got twenty-one shots left, I got you covered.”

“And HIM?”

“You mean Quarles? Mh… well, if I can’t amend it… okay, him, too.”

“And what about André?”

“Nah, I don’t like him. His name’s stupid.”

“Hey now, I got a cousin named André.”

“Yeah, well, he ain’t here, is he?”

They bantered back and forth for a few more minutes, and it felt… good. Like he was back home and talking to Johnny or some old buddy from the AB or the mines. Like Russel, or Funny, as Devil had taken to calling him now, based on their last conversation, was a friend now. He was still a nigger, but he was also still willing to ignore Devil’s past, ignore the tattoos on Devil’s arms and neck, in favor of talking to him like a friend would. And Devil thought that here in Frankfort at least, he could use all the friends he could get. And Funny WAS pretty cool for a nigger.

“Hey, man, sorry, HE is lookin’ at me like he’s gon’ shoot me himself if I don’t hang up now.”

“Alright, man. Jus’ remember, I got you covered.”

“Yeah. See you on the other side.”

They hung up then, and Funny’s last comment sat like a stone in Devil’s stomach. Still a little over an hour till encounter. He really did not want to shoot anybody in Quarles’s name.

But, it occurred to him, if he did have to shoot anybody, he’d just do it for Funny. Yeah. That Devil would be able to deal with. Even if Funny was just a nigger, he’d rather save him, and the poor, good-as-dead nigger boy, and even Limehouse and entire goddamn Noble’s Holler, than he’d save Robert Quarles. Devil took his eyes off the scope for a second and wondered whether that hate was uncalled for. 

Was it, though? That man had managed to turn Devil against Boyd, the man he knew best, the man who had recruited Devil so long ago, had given his life a direction when Devil had thought he’d lost it all. It was the biggest mistake – or at least ONE of the biggest mistakes Devil had ever made, and it was all. His. Fault.

Nah, he thought. Quarles will get what Quarles deserves.

The minutes ticked away. It was afternoon, and thankfully some clouds shimmied in front of the sun and took some of its glare away. The roof of the building Devil was positioned on was encased by a cement wall that was about hip-high, so Devil had to crouch the entire time to not be in plain sight. At least the M4A1 was painted in a dull black with matt finish so it wouldn’t catch any light. If these Norwegians knew what they were doing, they’d be checking the roofs. Devil just hoped he’d be quick enough on the uptake to duck when needed.

Then finally four o’clock rolled around. It was five minutes to four, actually, when four men walked through the park and somehow drew Devil’s attention to them. He didn’t even know exactly what it was that made them so out of place, but they were. He’d switched his earpiece on half an hour ago and listened to Quarles’s quiet time-to-time chatter with André while scoping the area. Now he heard Quarles’s voice, loud and clear, in his ear.

“Devil. It’s them. Duck until I tell you otherwise. Right now.”

Devil didn’t need to be told twice; he’d already disappeared behind the wall before Quarles had even finished talking. He waited and counted the seconds. Thirty seconds, a minute, and Quarles didn’t say anything to him anymore.

His cell phone vibrated. It was a text, from Funny; it said, ‘Put binoculars away. Safe 2 come up.’ So Devil did. Slowly, so as to not attract any attention, he raised first barrel, then head over the wall. The crouch he was in was hell on his side, but right now he couldn’t care for it. Looking through the scope, he found Quarles and André in no time since they were still on the bench. Looking for Funny, he found him to be walking in their direction, sauntering along like he was just enjoying the weather.

The four men in suits were coming closer, as well. One of them actually had binoculars hanging on straps around his neck. Very inconspicuous. Didn’t look like Norwegians, though; Devil had always imagined them to be blond. They were all different shades of brunette, the lot of them. They reached Quarles then, as did Funny. Devil reckoned he had a small caliber handgun stuffed into the back of his pants, hopefully with the safety on.

Devil listened to Quarles talking to them, greeting them in the same falsely cheery way he greeted everyone with.

“Hello, Mr. Yitterdal. I hope you found the place alright?”

Devil could hear Mr. Yitterdal answer, albeit a bit muffled and not as understandable as Quarles’s Oxford English due to his rather strange accent. Devil had never met any Scandinavians until now; he had no idea how they talked.

“Yes, yes. Quite convenient for you to pick a public place, is it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want anything to happen that we would both regret” Quarles said, smiling. “Now, let’s talk business. When we were on the phone, you said something about investing in the material needed to create Oxycodon…”

Devil blended their talk out as well as he was able to, focusing solely on the Norwegians and their body language. One of them was standing dangerously close to Funny. Devil could see bulges in the backs of their suits. They were all packing. Shit. He fished his cell phone out without taking his eye off the scope and tipped a text, half-blind, sending it to Funny. ‘All packin Bware’, it said. He pushed send and focused all of his attention back on the encounter. Ten seconds later Funny looked at his cell phone and showed it to Quarles. Devil could hear a very quiet voice in his ear say, “Got a text from Devil, Sir, you might wanna see.”

Quarles looked at the cell phone, reading Devil’s text, and his mouth molded into a grim expression that changed into another fake smile just a beat later.

“Well, well” he said. “It has come to my attention that you and all your, uhm, ‘business partners’, like you said they were, are carrying guns in the backs of your pants. Would you care to explain why you felt the need to do that if we’re only having a meeting?”

Mr. Yitterdal flinched and made to turn around. Devil unlocked the safety and released a shaky breath.

“Oh, I wouldn’t turn around now, Mr. Yitterdal. If you do, my sniper will shoot you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You thought I wanted to meet in public so I would be safe in case you tried something, correct? And you thought that automatically made you safe, as well? Well, you guessed wrong. I got a sniper positioned on the roof of that building. He’s listening in on the conversation. One word from me, he shoots. So I would think twice about trying something.”

The Norwegians stilled, their postures stiffening. Devil thought he heard some angry whispering in a strange foreign language, presumably something along the lines of “I thought you checked the roofs, dumbass!” 

“So, Gentlemen. Would you please tell me now what it really is that you came here for. And keep in mind the sniper and that we are all armed, as well.”

From his position on the roof, looking at Quarles, André and Funny’s faces and the backs of the Norwegians, Devil could see the Norwegian on the far right side, the one standing directly across from Funny, ball his hands into fists. Shit. That guy was twitchy. The air was still now, the heat of the day oppressive. The clouds had pushed along and the sun was in full glaring mode again, making sweat run down Devil’s back. His side was really bothering him now. The men in his scope stood there, still as fucking statues, and the entire situation seemed like an old Wild West stand-off kinda thing. The one who twitched first would get shot. And Devil was sure, no, KNEW it would be the guy across from Funny. He knew.

Devil saw the guy’s hand move, then, in a sudden, unnatural movement behind his back, and he shut off all thought; he had the guy in his scope, the back of his head, and Devil didn’t need to think about it now, he knew Funny wouldn’t be able to pull his gun and unlock the safety in time to defend himself. Devil pulled the trigger and took the shot.

It rang around the quiet park like an explosion, suddenly everybody was screaming and ducking. The brain matter of the Norwegian Devil hat hit bulls-eye in the head splattered onto Funny, who looked utterly dumbstruck. Two more shots were fired, but not from Devil; Quarles and André then. Devil set his sights on them. There was one guy still standing, and Devil didn’t have the time to aim the shot perfectly, he just needed to stop him from shooting anybody, so he got him in his scope rudimentarily and pulled the trigger again, twice. One scraped him on the shoulder, making him drop his gun. The second shot hit him in the upper back. He fell and didn’t get up again.

Searching the area through the scope, Devil saw that four bodies were lying on the ground, and they were all brunettes in suits. No losses, then. Quarles, André and Funny were gone, probably running to the car now, before polies showed up. Standing, Devil packed up his stuff and raced down the fire escape as fast as his burning side would allow; in that weird crouching position the kickback had been absolute hell, and Devil had trouble breathing when he reached the floor.

The soccer-mom-van raced by him then, coming to a screeching halt about thirty feet ahead of Devil, and he ran the distance despite the pain, hopping into the back seat. The car sped off and Devil leaned forward in his seat, clutching at his side, not bothering to look at the others.

“Devil? You alright there, man?”

That was Funny. Still alive. So Devil did one thing right today.

“Fine” Devil ground out, entirely for Funny’s benefit.

“What’s the matter, I thought you said you could handle the kickback” André said. Devil hissed when he drove over a bump in the road.

“Not in that weird crouch on the roof, I couldn’t!”

“Gentlemen, let’s just calm down now, mh? I think it’s safe to say that Devil did an excellent job.” Quarles. He sounded so disgustingly pleased.

“What do you mean, excellent job? We were just standing there and then suddenly Hawkeye here starts shooting out of the blue! We could have-”

“What do you mean, out of the blue? The guy was goin’ for it! You couldn’t see from your position, but I saw, it, he was goin’ for his gun, and I thought that was my cue to shoot him!”

“Was he really, or were you just hot to shoot somebody today?”

“If I’s just lookin’ for a kill today” Devil said and he knew right now he sounded kinda terrifying, “I woulda shot YOU, man. Not the Norwegian fuckers, jus’ you. Matter of fact, I still could, right fuckin’ now. I got my Beretta, you got your hands on the steerin’ wheel, asshole-”

“Okay now, everybody SHUT UP!” Quarles yelled. The following silence was so filled with tension you could have cut through it. The burning in Devil’s side slowly subsided, and realization sunk in on what he’d just done. He had killed two people, and at least one of them just for Robert Quarles.

“André, Devil was the one on the roof, he had the entire situation in his view, and if he says the guy was going to grab his gun, it was his cue to shoot. I believe him. You hear me?”

André nodded jerkily, his fingers holding onto the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.

“Devil, I would like for you to not shoot André and refrain from threatening to do so. Do you think you can manage that?”

“We’ll see.”

“Devil.”

“If he’s gon’ keep his fuckin’ mouth shut.”

“Devil, I want you to promise me.”

“Fine, I promise I ain’t gonna shoot that asshole! He keeps actin’ like that, someone else’s gonna do the job at one point or another, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit, guys! You did do fantastic, Devil. I am rightly proud of you.”

Devil raised his eyes from the floor of the car then to look at Quarles, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat, twisting his body a little so he could see Devil’s face. What Devil felt like doing right now was to grab his Beretta and shoot Quarles in his stupid, ugly-as-fuck baby face and then shoot André in the back of his head like he said he’d do. He collected all the control and restraint he had in himself in order to not do that.

“Thank you, Sir” he bit out.

Then Devil looked at Funny, who was sitting in the seat next to him, and all fight left his body. Funny was splattered in blood and brain matter from head to toes, and was trying to wipe some of it off his face with a rag. He looked… shocked. Shocked to the bone.

“Hey, Funny.”

Funny turned his head, but couldn’t really look at him.

“How are you doin’?”

Funny shrugged, an uncoordinated, sluggish movement. 

“I’m alive” he said.

And really, that was all Devil had promised him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the chapters I wasn't really happy with.  
> Warning: Use of the n-word. Also, sex.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

The Understudy

 

Chapter 6

 

The rest of the drive Devil stared out of the window at the passing landscape, not seeing it at all, only seeing the two men he’d shot today. He thought of what Caleb had said, about creating an It and not being able to shut it off. He hadn’t understood it at the time, but now, he thought, seeing the brain matter on the pavement and the second man dropping to the ground in a heap, now he might have an idea.

His body felt numb, the pain in his side having subsided to a dull throbbing that just belonged there; Devil couldn’t imagine himself without that pain anymore. It had been there for so long now he didn’t remember how it was to be without it. Quarles said “Devil, I am rightly proud of you” in his head, over and over again. Nothing quite made sense right at this moment. Devil had never felt so hollow.

They dropped him off at the flat, André not grating him with a look, Funny staring out of the other window, captured in his own gruesome struggle of memories, and Quarles was the only one who even said good bye.

“You did great today. Take the weekend off.”

Devil blinked at him. “It’s Wednesday.”

“It’ll be an extended weekend then. You deserve it.”

Devil slammed the door shut without answering or bidding his own farewells. He didn’t want to hear about what he deserved or how good he’d done. He just wanted away.

The van drove off into the distance, and Devil went upstairs to the flat. When he got in, Caleb was sitting on the couch and there was quite the commotion in the kitchen and the sleeping rooms.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in here?” Devil asked in way of a greeting. He wasn’t feeling too social today.

“Bunch of guys arrived bout two hours ago. Must be six at least, an’ they’re trying to order pizza right now.”

“How hard can that be?” Devil dropped onto the sofa next to Caleb and put his feet on the table. He had waited all day for that, but now the noises and chatter of unfamiliar voices would not let him relax. He was starting to feel jittery and twitchy, and like there wasn’t enough air in the room for him. 

“What time is it?” he asked, looking at the ceiling.

“You ain’t got a watch, man?”

“Jus’… humor me?”

“It’s a little past six.”

“Mh. Is it too early for a drink?”

“Some would say so.”

“I ain’t some.”

Caleb nodded thoughtfully. “Hey” he said then. “Got a call. I’m gonna be leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Good for you” Devil murmured. “Good for you, man.”

“Are you… are you okay?”

Devil frowned. “I ain’t sure. But…” He stood up. “I’m goin’ for that drink now. You comin’? There’s a bar right around the corner.”

“Nah, thanks. Seems like I’m one of those who’d say it’s too early.”

“’Kay. Hey, uh, Caleb.” Devil scribbled his number on a piece of paper and threw it at him.

“What’s that?” Caleb asked, unfolding the scrap.

“My number, man. Case you ever wanna, you know, talk or somethin’.”

Caleb gnawed on his lip. “Sure… yeah, maybe.” A little smile curled his mouth upwards. “’Less you’re just trying to get in my pants.”

“Dream on. I’mma get shitfaced now. Bye.”

“Bye.” Caleb gave him a little salute before Devil shut the door behind himself again. He was pretty sure Caleb wasn’t ever going to call, but you could never know. 

 

 

And the next thing Devil knew, he was lying in someone else’s bed with the worst hangover since he’d been 23 years old, blinking against the blur in his eyes. When his sight cleared enough for him to see further than three inches, he understood that he was lying on his stomach on the right side of the bed (whoever this bed belonged to) and staring at his right forearm, where the bruises that Caleb’s fingers had left the day before were turning a very deep purple.

Light shone in his eyes and he clenched them closed again, releasing a heartfelt groan. Shit. The last time he’d been blackout drunk and had woken up in a stranger’s bed was almost ten years ago. What the hell had happened to elicit this reaction?

It all came rushing back to him then. Quarles. Funny. That asshole with the stupid name. Norwegians, and a M4A1, and two bodies on Devil’s account.

Shit, he thought. That’s what I’ve been trying to forget!

Devil reckoned that it hadn’t worked after all. He turned his head to the other side to have a look at the part of the room that he hadn’t seen yet, and came face to face with a pair of dark brown eyes and a flood of wavy hair of the same color.

“Jesus” he said and flinched back a little. That chick had scared the hell out of him just now, but his body apparently wasn’t able to express a yell.

“No, it’s just me” she said, like it was a joke, but she wasn’t smiling, just studying him with an expression one could have interpreted as, ‘What the fuck did I do last night?’.

“Yeah, well” Devil murmured, blinking. “Scared the shit outta me. How long you been starin’ at me like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple minutes. I was wonderin’ when you were gonna wake up… or if I had to call an ambulance, cause you were pretty far gone last night.”

Now that she reminded him of it, Devil buried his face in the fluffy pillow and groaned. Christ Almighty, his head was going to explode.

“You okay?”

Devil wondered himself why people seemed to feel compelled to ask him that so much here in Frankfort; he’d heard that question in the one month he’d been here more often than in an entire year down in Harlan. But then again, in Harlan he always WAS okay. He didn’t usually get shot and had to shoot somebody for someone he hated with all his heart and didn’t have to pretend to beat up good-as-dead nigger boys and get shitfaced drunk and bang a strange creepy chick and forget all about it afterwards.

“I’mma be fine” he said, muffled by the pillow. “Nothin’ a shower and some aspirin ain’t gon’ fix… shit” Devil added and looked at her after wracking his brain for a few seconds. “I… I’m real sorry, I don’t even remember your name.”

“It’s alright, I ain’t surprised. I’m Nina.”

“Nina. Hey. I’m-”

“Devil, yeah, I do remember your name. Kinda hard to forget.”

She, Nina, still wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look all that pissed, either. It surprised Devil a bit, to be honest; the last chick he’d pulled this stunt with had gone into full-blown bitch mode the second he admitted to not knowing her name anymore, and had kicked him out onto the street in only his boxers. Devil preferred this, by a long shot. It was awkward, but drunken mornings after almost always were.

“Right” he said, just to say something. “Uh. Sorry. Could I, maybe, use your shower or somethin’?”

Nina sighed. “Yeah, sure. It’s the first door on the left when you leave the bedroom.”

“Thanks.”

Devil took seemingly forever to get into a seating position. It took him seemingly forever to notice he was naked, too. Well, of course he was. That answered that question. Looking around he couldn’t find any of his clothes in reach and decided, to hell with it, she’d have seen him in all his glory before anyway. In the dark, though. He noticed his bandage was still semi-fastened over the gun shot, dangling from a single thread of medical tape. Ripping it off quickly like you did with a band-aid, he scrunched it up into a tight little ball and slowly stood up.

Yep, his side was still giving him hell. Must have been some action he’d had last night, Devil thought.

Devil felt Nina’s eyes on his naked butt, but he wasn’t one to blush, never had been. Had he been feeling better, he might have added his two cents in a “Like what you see?” kinda way, but he was really feeling like shit. The hangover from hell, paired with the memories of yesterday and the pain in his side, made for a rather un-cheerful morning mood.

Devil found the bathroom easily enough and when the hot water hit the tender skin around the scabbed-over injury, he hissed. But on the rest of his body, the water felt like absolute heaven. He’d felt quite the strain in his legs from having to hold the awkward crouch on the roof for so long, and his arms, not used to the weight of the rifle, were sore, as well. His head pounded, and for a split second, he thought he might vomit into that girl Nina’s shower, which would have made him really uncomfortable; but Devil had never been the vomiting-type when it came to hangovers. His other cousin, Lewis, had been able to drink as much as he wanted, and even when he had the worst hangovers you could possibly have, alcohol poisoning and an entire day in the bathroom chucking up your guts, he’d never even once had a black-out. In turn, Devil would have blanks in his memory, but only in rare cases did he have to throw up. It was their separate alcoholic super powers, they’d always joked.

Stepping out of the shower when he finally felt clean enough, he thought about showing a modicum of decency and wrapped a towel around his hips. But Nina wasn’t in the bedroom anymore when he entered; he heard rustling across the hallway, and the clatter of what sounded like pans and plates. Breakfast? Devil sure hoped so.

He found his pants on the floor, half hidden under Nina’s side of the bed. No wonder he hadn’t seen them there. He found his socks, one on the floor in the door way, one dangling from the ceiling fan, along with his boxers (and wasn’t that a sleight of hand?), and as he carefully got dressed, he found his Beretta lying on the bookshelf next to the dresser and looked for his shirt and vest, coming up empty. It made Devil anxious. He couldn’t give two shits about the shirt, but he loved that vest. It had five year patches on it, for the five years he’d been a part of the AB. And it had a Welsh patch on it, because Devil knew his daddy’s father had immigrated here from Wales. Devil had owned that vest for almost twenty years now.

Oh well, he thought, trying to calm himself. It’s gonna turn up one way or another. How many biker vests could Nina have lying around here anyway?

Out of need, for he didn’t find anything else he could have put on, he entered the small, homey kitchen shirtless, this time uncomfortably aware that Nina had free view of his gunshot wound, and he hoped she wouldn’t ask him about it. He just needed to get the hell out of here now.

Or, Devil thought when he saw the fried eggs and his stomach made a sound like a dying animal, after breakfast. Yeah, after breakfast was soon enough. Wasn’t that common courtesy after a one-night-stand? Having breakfast together?

Nina noticed him and smiled. “Hey there. Feel any better?”

“Sure. Smells good.”

She shrugged. “I figured I could make us breakfast.”

“That’s cool.”

Now that she was standing in front of the stove, Devil had the first good look at her, and damn it, she was hot. Thick, brown curls that about reached her shoulder blades, and those nice brown eyes that had studied him so thoroughly. She was shorter than him by about eight inches, and with nice tits and ass, as far as he could tell with what she was wearing… Oh. She was wearing his shirt.

“So that’s where my shirt went” he said, raising a brow. Nina blushed a little.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Did you look for it?”

“Just a little. I, uh, I had a vest to go with that, you don’t by any chance know where that went…?”

“It’s on the couch, in the livin’ room. I found it on the floor there.”

“Oh, alright.”

“Now, you wanna sit down, have some eggs? You like ‘em fried, right? I hate scrambled eggs, they give me headaches.”

Devil snorted a little at that and took a seat. “Fried’s jus’ fine, thanks.”

“Okay then, there you go.”

Nina loaded two fried eggs on his plate and then sat across from him, and after two minutes of silence he looked up and saw that she was staring at him. No, not at him, at his chest. And his arms. First he thought she was inspecting his tattoos, but then her eves wandered along, and Devil understood. Holy crap. The hot chick he’d fucked last night was checking. Him. Out.

Nina noticed then he’d caught her staring, and she blushed a little again. But, damn, he thought, she’s kinda cute that way.

“So, uhm, Devil” Nina said, probably to fight against the impending awkwardness, “tell me somethin’ about yourself.”

“Well, what do you wanna know?” Devil asked and shoved some eggs into his mouth. He was starving.

“Oh, I dunno, we could start with your real name. I just doubt somehow your parents actually christened you Devil.”

“Fair enough… well, my name’s Derek. Lennox.”

“Nice to meet you, Derek Lennox, I’m Nina Romano.” She smiled at him, and something compelled Devil to smile back a little. “And where do you live?”

“Right now I’m stayin’ in one of ‘em CAG flats the Dixie Mafia’s got all around town, but originally I’m from Harlan, down south.” Devil said it like it was nothing special because, he thought, if he didn’t try to make a big fuzz of it, maybe she wouldn’t, either. He didn’t want to keep it secret, though. He had enough secrets to carry around with him currently, he didn’t need another one.

Devil saw Nina trip over “Dixie Mafia”, and she looked like she really wanted to ask about it, but what came out of her mouth instead was, “CAG flat?”

“Yeah, C-A-G, stands for ‘Comin’ And Goin’’, cause nobody ever stays there long. Cept for me, I guess, cause I been there a whole fuckin’ month now. The place is a mess. Yours, on the other hand, it’s real nice.”

“Oh, thank you” she said and smiled again, even bigger this time, and she really was cute, he thought. She hadn’t asked about the Dixie Mafia. Maybe she didn’t want to know, he thought. After all she was living in Frankfort, she had to have some idea of it, right? Maybe she’d been involved with someone from the Dixie Mafia before and knew it was safer not to ask. Whatever the reason was, Devil decided he liked her and that it was an absolute shame he had no memory of banging her. Perhaps he could try to right that wrong.

“You know what, maybe I should go now” he said, looking at the clock over the stove that said it was past noon already. “But I’mma tell you somethin’.”

“What?”

“How bout we go out on a date or somethin’, and then we can get to know each other a little better and we can talk while I ain’t completely drunk off my ass, so I’ll even remember your name the next day. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds… perfect.” Now Nina was outright grinning at him, and Devil felt like grinning right back.

“You can tell me what happened to your side, then” she added, expectantly, and Devil hesitated for a moment. No secrets, he reminded himself. 

“Sure” he said, shrugging. “If you gon’ ask, I’mma tell you.”

“Can’t wait.”

“So, I could pick you up here, say, tomorrow night? Round eight?”

“Yeah, that’s great.”

“Uhm… you mind tellin’ me where ‘here’ is, though” Devil looked at her sheepishly. “Cause I ain’t got no idea. Don’t even know how I got here. I didn’t drive, did I?”

“Nah, you didn’t. We walked here, or, in your case, stumbled. The bar’s six blocks down the road, to the right when you come out the door.”

“Shit” Devil said, impressed. “I was still able to walk six blocks? Lewis woulda been proud of me!”

“Who’s Lewis?”

“Cousin” Devil answered shortly. “But, tomorrow, right? Don’t wear anythin’ too fancy. That ain’t my kinda thing.”

“No worries, it ain’t mine, either” Nina said and smiled again. She disappeared into the bedroom quickly to change and came back with his shirt in hand, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe. After donning shirt and vest and his boots that had been abandoned by the door, he looked at her pretty face and thought he should at least remember how it felt to kiss her, so he leant forward and she didn’t lean back.

It felt, as Devil reckoned when he pulled back again, pretty fucking good. Judging from the look on Nina’s face, she thought so, as well, and her smile was a little dreamy now when she told him good bye and shut the door behind him.

This, Devil thought, is just fucking awesome. Turned out Frankfort had some good sides, as well. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow night to come around.

 

 

When Friday night did finally come around, Devil had to admit he was just a tad bit nervous. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. You’re a grown man. But he also was a grown man who hadn’t been on a proper date in ten years. He thought of that time, back then, and just congratulated himself that at least Nina didn’t have ginger hair.

When he’d swaggered into the flat, Keegan had just asked him what he was so giddy about and Devil looked at him like he’d gone insane because Derek Lennox was never giddy. Ever. Well, maybe sometimes. Robbing banks had made him giddy. Apparently dating a hot chick made him giddy, too. Anonymous one-night-stands and visiting whores hadn’t made him giddy, and now Devil really saw the value in that chance encounter of last night. Quarles made good on his promise to give him the long weekend off, as well, and didn’t call him, neither on Thursday nor on Friday.

The date was good, better than Devil would have expected. He’d racked his brain over what to do with her and since eating out in some fancy restaurant was nothing he could imagine doing, considering he’d never really done it before, he thought maybe they could go see a movie (Keegan had told him there was a movie theater next to the Franklin Square Shopping Center, ten minutes down south) and then have a drink in the bar.

And that was what they did; see a movie, and have a drink. They had the choice between some chick flick with that kid from High School Musical (and that was a clear no on Devil’s account because, as giddy as he might be about this, he would have rather shaved his head, took his hair, braided a noose out of it and hanged himself with that than see a movie based on something by Nicholas Sparks) and some run-of-the-mill action flicks with Jason Statham and consorts, which Nina gave her veto to. They got lucky then because they found out that the theater also showed movies in 3D, and they settled on watching Prometheus. Aside from the more disgusting alien shit, Devil thought it was pretty good. Nina clung to his arm the whole time (and, yeah, no horror movies for that girl, he thought) and once clamped so hard on the bruises Caleb had left Devil had to suppress a yell. But, dear Lord, he told himself, it’s worth it.

Afterwards they had a drink and no uncomfortable silences whatsoever. The bar was full and loud and they were tucked away in a corner booth, and Devil consciously cut back on the booze this time, because he did not want to be drunk if they took it to her flat again.

Nina had a Cosmopolitan in front of her, the girliest drink Devil could imagine, and took another sip, then asked him the question Devil had dreaded.

“So. What happened to your side?”

Devil sighed. “Well. I said I’d tell you, so… yeah. I got shot.”

Nina just nodded, like she’d expected it. This was Frankfort, Devil reminded himself. She might have seen it coming.

“Was it the police?” was her next question, and Devil frowned.

“What? No!”

“So what exactly are you involved in then?” Nina studied him closely. “Cause you have to be involved in somethin’ to get shot, you know. I ain’t stupid. Dixie Mafia’s practically omnipresent in this city. Half of the people are involved, the others ain’t. I’m the other half, but that don’t mean I ain’t aware of nothin’.”

“I can’t tell you what I’m involved in, for a lot of reasons” Devil said. “Sorry. It’s for your own safety. But mostly, it’s for mine.”

“But… the polies, they’re…”

“Not onto me, as far as I know” Devil continued. Nina nodded slowly. 

The situation felt entirely unreal to him again. Here he was, sitting in a bar with a hot chick that had taken him home with her two nights before even though he’d been so drunk he could barely walk, and now she was asking him questions he knew would cost him his life if he answered them (and presumably hers, too), but she didn’t seem to be all that bothered with it. Devil liked this girl, Nina. He just liked her and hoped that the boat hadn’t sailed on them   
having sex tonight. 

At around midnight Nina asked him if he wanted to come to her flat for a coffee or something. That was how she phrased it: “A coffee, or somethin’”. In no world could Devil have imagined saying no to that request.

And sex they did have. This time Devil remembered every last detail. He could only speak for himself, of course, but he thought it was awesome, and he felt like he’d done pretty good, too, judging from the blissed-out look on Nina’s face. He spent the night there again, this time falling asleep to images of Nina’s smile and Nina’s tits instead of good-as-dead nigger boys and Norwegian brain matter splattered onto Funny and the asphalt-covered ground in that park in the middle of nowhere.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, this is the chapter were Wynn Duffy makes his entrance, my favorite bad guy in the show. Did you notice that he's the only bad guy who's been there since season 1? The others came and went, but Duffy sticks. I had (and still have actually) exceptionally much fun writing dialogue for him.  
> Enjoy.

The Penny in the Parking Lot: Part 1

The Understudy

 

Chapter 7

 

Devil and Nina slept in, until after noon, and had sex again. Morning sex. Devil would have liked to high-five someone on that, because, how lucky could he get? They arranged to meet again, tonight, since it was Saturday. Nina told him to come to her place and let himself be surprised. Devil was looking forward to it.

“Where you been, dude?” Keegan asked him when he stepped into the flat. Keegan was sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating cornflakes for lunch and watching the Star Wars episode of Robot Chicken. Devil slumped down next to him and smirked.

“I had a date with a hot chick last night, and tonight we’re goin’ out again” he said. “That’s where I been, man. Heh.”

“Don’t you got work or somethin’?”

“Nah, Quarles gave me the weekend off. So far he’s been keepin’ to it, too, so I keep my fingers crossed.”

“Cool, man, good for you. There’s some left-over spaghetti from yesterday, case you’re hungry.”

“Nah, me an’ Nina had a late breakfast. She said I should let myself be surprised tonight.” Devil rubbed his hands together. “It’s gonna be so fuckin’ awesome.”

“How’d you meet her, anyway?” Keegan asked slurping milk from his cornflakes bowl.

“Oh, well. You… did we even see each other on Wednesday?”

“Yeah, I think so. You were sleepin’ on the couch, remember, and some guys arrived at like 6 am and when I asked you if you’re awake you said no.”

Devil frowned. “I don’t even remember that. Where were you? I was here for like two minutes in the evenin’, didn’t see you anywhere, jus’ Caleb.”

“I was out doin’ laundry. So you DID come home on Wednesday. I thought you just disappeared.”

“Anyway. I went to have a drink in the bar round the corner, you know, the one with the red door and the blue flashy sign above it?”

“Uhuh.”

“Well, that day just sucked. Like, for real. So, one drink turned into, I don’t even know how many, and then next mornin’ I wake up in her bed and we have breakfast and I ask her out on a date and she says yes, and here we are now.”

“Huh. Sounds like a lovestory if ever there was one, dude.”

“Shut up. Least I’m gettinn’ some!”

Keegan hit Devil with a pillow, and Devil pushed him in retaliation, not taking into account that Keegan was really skinny and had about as many muscles as a seven-year-old, and hence Devil pushed a little too hard and Keegan sailed off the couch like a paper sheet. There were almost comic-like rumbling noises when he landed on the floor, like someone had written “THUMP” into the air above him, and the spoon in his bowl clattered from side to side.

Devil grimaced. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to…”

Keegan sat up. “I’m okay, I’m okay! And I managed not spoil anythin’ either!” 

He held up his bowl, and sure enough, it was still half-full.

“I’m impressed, you idiot” Devil said and gave him a hand. “You should work out a little, you know. Watch a little less TV and stuff. Then maybe I wouldn’t be able to push you off the couch like that.”

“Well, where would I go?” Keegan asked, eyes already drawn back to the TV and a stop-motion edition of Han Solo talking about reactors.

“Nerd.”

“Whatever, dude. You got any laundry?”

“Now that you mention it…”

 

 

It was six o’clock, and in two hours Devil was going to meet up with Nina for their second date. He was just debating whether or not he should take his gun with him; they’d be spending the entire night at her place, so he wouldn’t really need it. But Devil never left the house without his gun. He felt unprotected and naked without it. The vibration of his cell phone stopped his contemplations. He looked at the display and swore.

“No. No, no, no. Not NOW.”

It was Quarles. Devil pressed a fist to his forehead. He could so not use the pasty bastard right now. The vibrating stopped for ten full seconds before starting up again. It was of no use. Devil answered.

“Hello.”

“Devil! You didn’t answer the first time.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was, uh, looking for my phone.”

“Alright then. You’re probably wondering why I am calling you now, seeing as I told you you’d have the weekend off.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry to have to say this, you really did deserve your weekend, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go somewhere tonight.”

“Oh, COME – sorry.” Devil took a calming breath. “Does it really have to be tonight? I kinda had… can’t I do it tomorrow first thing?”

“As I said, Devil, I’m sorry, but Mr. Duffy requested speaking to you tonight, not tomorrow.”

“Wait, what? Who?”

“Mr. Wynn Duffy would like to speak to you.”

“Wynn Duffy? What kinda name is that? Sounds like a comic character or somethin’.”

“Yes, well, you can tell him that yourself when you see him. Tonight. I gave him your number, he will text you the current address of his motor coach.”

“Wait, wait. You’re tellin’ me that some guy who calls himself Wynn Duffy and lives in a trailer wants to see me? You, uh, care to tell me why?”

“A motor coach, not a trailer, Devil, it’s important you keep that in mind. Now, as for why, I told him about the fantastic work you’ve done for me, and Wynn said he’d like to meet you and maybe borrow you for a job here and there.”

“Borrow me, huh. I ain’t a CD.”

“Devil, if I foiled your plans for tonight I apologize, but you will go and talk to Mr. Duffy. That’s an order.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“Very good. Have a good night then, and send Wynn my regards.”

Devil hung up without saying good bye. He was seething. Shit! For God’s sake! The pasty bastard had ruined his night, and for what? Some guy named Wynn Duffy who lived in a motor home? It sounded an awful lot like a set-up, and one of the more weakly arranged, too.

But what choice did Devil have anyway? He received a text half an hour later that sent him to coordinates in the middle of nowhere again, and he had to call Nina and cancel. She sounded as disappointed as he felt. Then he had to hit the road.

When Devil arrived at the location he understood why Quarles had specifically said it wasn’t a trailer; it was one monstrosity of a motor coach, and the interior was all dressed with fancy, expensive-looking timber and shit. There was a TV, and women’s tennis was on it. Wynn Duffy stood up from where he’d lounged on the couch in front of the TV when Devil entered. He looked exactly like Devil had pictured him: Skinny with a suit and tie that he seemed to wear with a certain implicitness like he’d never worn anything else. Which meant he’d been born into money. Which meant that Devil couldn’t stand him as soon as Duffy stepped into his sight. He had a rat face and stringy blonde hair, and an oily voice to go with it.

Mike, his bodyguard or whatever he was, told him to raise his arms and asked him whether he was carrying a gun.

“Course I am, you think I’m a moron?”

Duffy laughed. “Ha! I already like this guy. Mike, leave it. Mr. Devil is not gonna shoot me. Are you?”

“We’ll see” Devil said, not about to make any guarantees to this weasel of a man.

“Well, like you said, we’ll see. Come on, take a seat, then!” 

Duffy sat at the table, and Devil squeezed himself in the small seating space across from him.

“Alright then” Devil started. He wanted to get this over with as fast as he could. “Quarles said you wanted to see me, so make it quick. I got plans.”

“So. You’re the one they call Devil.”

“You don’t need to ask me that, you know I am.”

“Yes. Okay, not a fan of stating the obvious, I see. Now, I asked you here because, well, you are working for Robert Quarles, is that correct?”

Devil frowned. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Because, you have to understand, Robert told me about the circumstances that led to you being one of his employees, and, honestly? I’m not buying it.”

Devil’s eyes got real big then. That last part hit him in the gut like Duffy had delivered a kick instead of a sentence. “What?” he said.

“You heard me. I call bullshit.”

Devil’s mouth was apparently sewed shut for now. He just stared at Duffy. Shit. If this guy was working for, or, God forbid, WITH Quarles, Devil was dead. Deader than dead. Dead as a fucking dodo.

“Because, you see, the way it all went down, it was just too easy. Okay, Crowder shot you, that’s a pretty good cover story. But the rest? It was just too easy. You give it one try and then you come crawling through the dust to Quarles, suck up to him a little, and suddenly you’re his right hand, loyal to the grave? No, I don’t buy it.”

“No-one said anythin’ bout graves” Devil ground out.

“That’s true, though, Mr. Devil. May I call you Devil?”

“Everybody does. No-one’s ever asked before.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. Now, Devil, I have to admit, the way you pulled this off and had everyone eating out of your hand like that, it was quite impressive.”

Devil sighed. His shoulders sagged. No use in denying it, he thought. “What made me?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m sure. Quarles doesn’t suspect a thing. I just knew from the very beginning that there was something not right about this. I looked into your records” (and where the hell does everybody keep getting my records from?, Devil wondered), “and it said there that you’ve known Boyd Crowder for over ten years, and I just doubt that you would throw that away for a perverse scumbag like Robert Quarles.”

“Uhm, sorry?”

“Oh, you heard me. I hate this man. I think he’s creepy, and a pervert, and my association with him is purely of beneficial reasons, for me, of course. He thinks it’s for him, as well, but, what the man doesn’t know…”

“So… you… don’t like him?”

“Do you wanna know why you were able to trick him so easily, Devil? Because the man’s a megalomaniac. He thinks he’s unbreakable, and that he had you wrapped around his little finger because he let you come here, grovel before him and then gave you work to do. He really, actually thinks you’re his man now. Because he would never, ever suspect anyone to go behind his back, he’s that crazy.”

“And you’re not crazy” Devil said, raising a brow.

“The difference between me and Quarles, why you were able to trick him, but not me, is that Quarles feels safe because he never suspects anyone he thinks on his side to betray him, ever. I, on the other hand, not only suspect it, I EX-pect it, Devil. Everybody is bribable, and everybody’s loyalty is purchasable, if you only know the right price.”

That sounded like something Boyd might have said, and it made Devil look at Duffy in a new light. “And why exactly did you ask me to come here?”

“Because Robert told me what you did for him on Wednesday. You shot two of those Norwegian criminals who tried to screw Quarles over. I told you already I’d known from the beginning that you were probably, most likely, screwing Quarles over in Boyd Crowder’s name, but now that you shot two guys for Quarles I wasn’t so sure anymore. I thought that it might actually be possible that you switched sides. So I wanted to see you, and ask you what your deal is, but, turns out I was wrong.”

“Well, you know what my deal is now.”

“Yes, I do. The question now is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, you ain’t gonna shoot me, or you would’ve made sure I’s unarmed.”

“That’s correct, Devil, I have no intention of shooting you.”

“Then what, Mr. Duffy, is your intention here, huh, if I may ask? Because I ain’t sure I’m followin’ you right now.”

“Well, I thought that, maybe, the two of us could come to an agreement of our own.”

Devil’s frown deepened. “And what would that look like?”

“There are people here” Duffy said, leaning forward on the table a bit, “in Frankfort, that are quite the thorn in my side, people that I would like to get rid of.”

“No.” Devil crossed his arms. “No, no way. You can forget that idea right now. I ain’t killin’ nobody for you.”

“Hear me out, first, Devil, mh?” Duffy smirked a little. “See, Devil, if you don’t help me out with this, I might be inclined to tell my dear friend Robert about your double-dealings, and I‘m betting he won’t be pleased to hear that.”

“Oh, so you wanna blackmail me” Devil said. “Let’s see. You just offered me a deal to kill somebody for you not tellin’ Quarles somethin’ he really would like to know. Don’t that – and correct me if I’m wrong here – but don’t that mean you’re kinda deep in the shit, too?”

“How so?” Duffy asked, but he was frowning, now, as well, just a little.

“Well, say you tell him bout me, and I tell him bout you in turn, Quarles ain’t gon’ be your ‘good friend Robert’ no more. I think the smart-asses call that ‘quid pro quo’. You don’t tell, though, and I don’t tell, and we’re all happy as a tornado in a trailer park.” 

“Interesting, Mr. Devil, interesting. Mh-mh.”

“What happened to ‘can I call you Devil’?”

“I can’t, it’s too strange, sorry. Well, now, Mr. Devil, I think you got a point there, but remember that I know Quarles better than you do, and longer, and if I tell him you’re gonna tell him shit about me that’s nothing but lies, he’s gonna be more inclined to side with me and off you in ten seconds, before you can even say ‘trailer park’ one more time.”

“You willin’ to take that risk?”

“Are you?”

They had a stare-down then, and Devil’s guts churned. Damn it, but Duffy was right. And Quarles WAS unpredictable. Just because the guy was batshit, didn’t mean he wouldn’t believe what Duffy told him and off Devil like he would have on the first day if Devil hadn’t sucked up to him like he had. Duffy had something to lose, as well, but his chances of actually losing it were next to nothing compared to Devil’s chances, for obvious reasons. He’d be killed and never be able to come home and see the hills again…

Devil chewed on his bottom lip and lowered his gaze to the table. “So what did you want me to do?” he said quietly, hating every word of it.

Wynn Duffy smiled comfortably. “I knew you were gonna see reason, Mr. Devil.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cut that shit out. Now, you said you wanted me to kill some guy.”

“No, I did in fact not say that. What I want you to do is kill a woman.”

Devil’s head snapped up so fast his neck cracked. “What? What did you say?”

“I said, I need you to kill a woman for me. I would have done it myself already, but it’s common knowledge we can’t stand each other, and if I kill her it’ll be way too suspicious… and also I’m not that keen on killing a woman.”

“Hell, me neither!” Devil yelled at him. “I ain’t never killed a chick before! And I ain’t gonna start now for some asshole like you!”

He stood up and turned away, ready to storm out, when he heard the click of a gun, of the safety being removed behind his back, and he turned to see Duffy pointing his weapon at him. “Sit down, please, Mr. Devil.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me.”

“Are you willing to take that risk?”

Devil’s hand flexed for his Beretta. “Are you?”

“Mr. Devil, if you walk out of my motor coach now, it’s very likely we’ll both be dead, come tomorrow. I say, we’re in this together. Now, sit down please, because I have things to explain to you.”

Devil saw out of the corner of his eyes that Mike had a gun on him now, as well, so he decided it wasn’t worth it and sat down again. “Fine” he said. “You want me to kill a chick, huh. Give me some good reasons, because if you say it’s just for the hell of it you can shoot me right now and toss my body into some tar pit if you like, cause I ain’t killin’ anybody without a good reason for it, least of all a woman.”

“That sounds fair, Mr. Devil. Listen. Stacey Granger. She’s not an innocent woman, I can assure you. She’s a pimp for the Dixie-”

“A pimp?”

“Yes, a pimp, Mr. Devil, because yes, there’s also prostitution in Frankfort. Granger runs the biggest whorehouse of the entire northern district of Kentucky for the Dixie Mafia, and it makes for unbelievably high incomings. That whore house is a cash machine, and everybody knows it. Now, six years ago, Granger was new to the business and she needed seed capital, to start her idea of a whore house of that size, and she had nothing, so I borrowed her 200,000 dollars.”

Devil whistled at the sum.

“Exactly. That was six years ago. Now Granger owns the biggest cash machine this side of Kentucky, and she still owes me my money. She won’t give it to me, no matter what I do, and quite frankly, not being paid what I am owed, it makes me mad. No, it pisses me OFF.”

“’Kay, I guess I know the feelin’, but what good will it do you if I kill her? It ain’t gonna get you your money back.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re in the wrong. See, if Granger dies, and I can get my hands on the whore house and sell it, I’ll get not only my two-hundred-thousand plus interest back, I’ll get much, MUCH more. Of which I would be willing to give you a cut, Mr. Devil. Provided that you kill her and help me get my hands on that whore house.”

“And how would I do that? I mean, helpin’ you get your hands on it?”

“That’s really the easy part. You just have to scare those who might be interested in buying it once Granger is dead off of buying it, just until I get my hands on it and sell it for more than the price that it’s actually worth. Because, you see, once that bitch is six feet under, people will try to buy it from the property owners for a smaller sum, and the property owners will most likely give it away to the first bidder who shows any interest. The property owners are conservatives and hate the fact that there’s a whore house on their grounds, they only tolerate it because they get a pretty nice cut of Granger’s incomings, and when that stops, they’ll want it gone. If you manage to scare all potential buyers off and I get my offer in first, I’ll get the whore house, I’ll get my money, you’ll get a nice reward for your troubles, and we will all be happy as… what was that nice analogy you used?”

“A tornado in a trailer park.”

“That’s the one.” Wynn Duffy nodded emphatically. “So, what do you say?”

“You want me” Devil summed it up, “to kill a chick-”

“A lying, stealing pimp” Duffy corrected.

“-whatever, a chick, and you want me to intimidate possible buyers of that chick’s cathouse, and in turn you ain’t gonna rat me out to anybody and I’ll even get well-paid for it?”

“If you don’t rat me out to anybody, either” Duffy added. “What do you say? Do we have a deal?”

Devil took Duffy’s outstretched hand and shook it in a tight grip. “We have a deal.”

He felt a little like he’d just sold his soul to the devil when Wynn Duffy finally let his hand go and told him they’d be in contact. Devil just hoped it wouldn’t be the end of him.

 

 

The bad feeling didn’t leave Devil when he left the motor coach. It certainly didn’t get any better when he saw that his truck had been towed off while he’d been talking to Duffy. There was a note stuck to the pole of the next street lamp, it said where he could pick it up, and that he would have to pay 200 bucks to get it back. And now he had to take the bus. 

Devil was glad he still had money on him. And his Beretta. This area looked pretty shady.

When he did finally find a bus station, Devil had to wait for thirty minutes. The bus that came, finally, was almost empty and smelled like vomit. There was a girl sitting in the middle, an older lady in the front, and some guy with glasses and a suitcase was asleep in the back. He was snoring. Devil took a seat in the middle, on the opposite side of the girl, a few rows behind the old lady. Watching the landscape pass by, he suddenly wished that Nina was here. Or, rather he wished he was with Nina, at Nina’s place. The CAG flat had been overrun with people today, enough that two guys had to share the bed in the guest room and another one had to sleep in front of the bed, on the floor, or they wouldn’t have been able to fit everyone in. And the worst thing was, they probably had to stay for at least a week. They’d be gone all day, but most days, so would Devil, and come evening, the flat was bursting at the seams.

All the commotion would hardly let Devil get any sleep, now that he was residing on the couch with Keegan. The couch was big, and not that uncomfortable, but it was in the middle of the flat, and when the sleeping rooms were filled to the rims, it was loud because, for whatever stupid reason Devil couldn’t fathom, the sleeping rooms had no doors that you could close. How anybody was able to sleep in there, on those shitty futons and air mattresses, with a bunch of strangers, it was beyond Devil. Sleeping in a room with people he’d never met – that image frightened him, just a little. Then the rooms didn’t even have doors. Suddenly Devil was even more thankful to Boyd for shooting him than he’d been before, because the bullet wound in his side had saved him from having to spend a night in there.

The bus held at a stop, and four teenaged guys got in. They had to be about 17, and judging from their noise level and the stale smell of beer they brought with them, they were drunk and probably felt like kings. Devil tried to remember when he’d been that young. He hadn’t considered himself old, but the last weeks had worn on him, and, well, now he was in his mid-thirties and found out what it was like when you fell asleep in the car and woke up with back pain and stiff knees and a cramp in your neck, and he looked at those teenagers and all he could remember about being that age was getting beaten up by his dad and wishing he were someplace else. 

One of the guys started hitting on the girl. Devil hadn’t really looked at her, vaguely remembered dark blond hair and nothing special about her. But he’d made the experience himself that you could in fact drink a chick good-looking, so he didn’t wonder. The girl told the teenager in no certain terms to piss off, then, and teenager boy’s friends turned to them. Devil got a bad feeling about it.

“What you said to me, girl?” the teenager (Devil named him Conan, after Conan O’Brien, because of his red hair) slurred. “With that bad case of guy puss you got goin’ on there, you should b’lucky I even no’iced you…”

The bus took a sharp turn and Conan tumbled backwards right into the lap of one of his drunken buddies. They all had a great laugh about it and then advanced on the girl again, the lot of them this time, and Devil could see the girl shrink in on herself. She was scared. Devil rolled his eyes. He wasn’t the good Samaritan here. He didn’t just help strangers like that. Usually it didn’t concern him what strangers dealt with. But really, he couldn’t just let these drunken fuckers hurt that girl in front of him, and who else would do anything about it? The old lady, who was shrinking back in fear herself? The driver, who was, well, driving, and probably didn’t go looking for trouble himself? Or maybe the guy with the glasses who still snored on like this was a Hilton suite? Who?

“Goddamnit” Devil murmured to himself. Louder he said, “Ey, yo, fellas, leave the girl be, huh?”

“Ooooh, we got a hero, guys” one of them said (Devil christened him Hellboy, because he was so fucking ugly, all he needed was some red paint and two horns and he’d look just like him; it fit because he was tall and broad-shouldered for his age, too). “You wanna be a hero, maaaaan?”

“No, ‘maaaaan’, I just want you to leave that girl the hell alone. Ugly as you are, any chick that looks at you with her backside’s doin’ you the favor.”

“Hey, asshole, who you talkin’ to?” the third one said (and Devil christened him Poppeye, because honest to God, he looked like Poppeye, and under different circumstances it would have cracked Devil up to no end).

The fourth one kept his mouth shut and looked inconspicuous enough for him to remain nameless for now, but Devil could see them form a wall (a drunken, badly smelling, teenaged wall) against him. They thought that because they were four and he was one, that made them stronger. Well, Devil was inclined to disagree. He was sober, he was pissed as all hell, and he had his Beretta, so technically there were two of him.

The only one Devil would have had to look out for, if the guy were sober and Devil’s side still bothering him, was Hellboy. But the kid was shitfaced, and Devil’s side felt pretty solid right now. He stood up, the Beretta a comforting weight against his back, and faced them in the central trail between the seats. The girl turned to look at him, fearful still, but thankful also because he’d taken the negative attention away from here. She really wasn’t a pretty one, but Devil didn’t particularly need to care. It wasn’t her honor he was defending here. He wasn’t defending anybody. Devil just wanted to blow off some steam.

“Well, boys, you just gon’ stand there and look at me like there ain’t nobody home?”

“Shut up, you asshole, you jus’ standin’ there lookin’ all dumb an’ shit, but I knoooow who you are” Poppeye said, and he was probably the most wasted out of all of them, because what he said really did not make a lick of sense. “I knooow who you are.”

Devil snorted. “Well, then, go ahead ‘n tell me, kid, cause the tension is jus’… riveting right now.” He never used the word “riveting”, but he’d heard Boyd say it once and this situation screamed for some of Boyd’s sublimity.

Whatever Devil had said or done now, whether it was the use of the word “riveting” or just the condescending tone of voice he’d said it with, apparently it was enough for Conan and Poppeye because they launched themselves at him, with a drunken miss-coordination that made them slam into each other and then bounce to opposite sides. Conan landed on the row behind the old lady, with an almost comical “oof”. Poppeye made his way over to Devil, and all Devil had to do was picture Wynn Duffy’s weasely face when he told him that he wanted him to kill a woman, and he delivered one punch to Poppeye’s ugly-as-fuck face to send him flying to the ground, and staying there.

Conan had righted himself in the meantime and Devil served him the same treatment as Poppeye, though the punch didn’t knock him out completely, it just had him moaning inarticulate things and writhing on the ground like he was lying in a sea of hedgehogs. 

Hellboy was on him before Devil could understand how someone that drunk could move that fast, and he delivered two hard punches that fit with his Hellboy-like physique. Devil felt something get knocked around in his head. A punch to the liver had him yelling and he thought, fuck this, I’m not getting beaten up by a fucking teenager, so he pulled his Beretta and pushed the barrel right into Hellboy’s chin.

“You wanna punch me one more time, son, I’mma show you how much of a hero I can be” Devil growled and pushed harder. “You picked the wrong fuckin’ day to mess with me, kid.”

“That ain’t fair fight” Hellboy said, blinking dumbly.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because I ain’t a hero, dumbass! Now let my fuckin’ vest go, you piece of shit!”

The second Hellboy’s fingers unclenched around the leather of Devil’s vest, Devil rammed a knee into Hellboy’s crotch, and when Hellboy fell to his knees with a high whining sound, Devil grabbed the hair at the back of his neck and rammed Hellboy’s nose into his knee. Hellboy made a gurgling sound and passed out, as well.

Devil stuffed his Beretta back into his belt and spat out some blood. Shit, but Hellboy packed one hell of a punch. He looked at Number Four, the one who hadn’t said anything, and he didn’t look like he was going to say or do anything now, either. Devil realized the kid was sober, and frightened, and not of Devil, either, but of the scumbags lying on the dirty bus floor all around him. 

The bus had stopped without Devil noticing. He just looked at Number Four.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“R-Ronald.”

“Ronald?” Devil spat out more blood and felt the little cut at the inside of his bottom lip. It wasn’t deep. “Get some new friends.”

“Yeah, I, uh, I’ll do that.”

“Glad to hear. Hey, uh, driver? Could you open the doors real quick so I can take the trash out?”

The driver did as he was told, probably too scared to gainsay him now that he’d seen that Devil was packing. Devil pushed the two unconscious kids out of the bus. Conan went willingly. The doors closed and the bus picked up its drive, and Ronald looked at Devil.

“Thanks, man” he said. Devil shrugged.

“Don’t mention it.” Devil felt his face. He’d have a shiner tomorrow, but for some reason, he felt better now. He hadn’t even needed to picture Quarles’s balls under his knee to feel some kind of deeply set satisfaction settle over him. Devil settled back in his seat and the only reminder that this had actually just happened were little specks of blood on the floor next to the doors, where Devil had spit, and where the impact of his knee with Hellboy’s nose had broken it and let some leak.


End file.
